


The Eye Among Cities

by xahra99



Series: Crusade [23]
Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Constantinople, Crusades, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, World Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-12
Updated: 2020-05-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:22:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 40,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24152002
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xahra99/pseuds/xahra99
Summary: After a long journey, Malik and Altaïr head home after stealing a Piece of Eden from the Templars in Persepolis.  But in the chaotic streets of Constantinople, the Assassins hear rumours of a far more sinister Eden fragment-a relic called the Shroud, which can bring the dead to life.Buckle on your hidden blade and journey eight hundred years into the past to the Eye of all Cities-Constantinople.A tale of the Assassins.Complete.
Relationships: Malik Al-Sayf & Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
Series: Crusade [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/6874
Comments: 12
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Though this fic is part of my epic Crusades series, it's meant to be able to be enjoyed alone. Have fun!

“Oh city, city, eye among cities. Thou hast drunk to the dregs the cup of the anger of the Lord.”

-Niketas Choniates

***

_Trebizond, April 1204/Sha’ban 10, 600_

_Malik._

It had been a bad idea to travel in winter.

Malik al-Sayf adjusted his grip on the parapet and leaned out into thin air. Beneath him Trebizond sprawled around a horseshoe-shaped harbour. To the north the Black Sea gleamed like steel. So many ships were anchored in the bay it seemed a man could step from deck to deck.

Malik had had enough of boats for one lifetime. He turned and gazed south, towards Syria. The mountain range inland was white with snow. Once Malik would have thought the peaks were high. Now he knew better. 

Malik and Altaïr had left Masyaf the year before, chasing rumours on the wind. They’d travelled to lands Malik knew only from maps to steal a Piece of Eden from the Templars in Persepolis. Though their quest had been successful, their return had taken months. Malik would have called their journey cursed if he’d believed in anything but the sharp edge of a blade.

He squinted, wishing he had a free hand to shade his eyes, and saw several tiny specks trudging along the ancient stone road that led south over the pass. The high road was open. They could head out as soon as they found a caravan.

Malik dropped from the roof and landed on the window ledge below in a cloud of gritty dust. He swung over the sill and climbed down, wedging his toes into cracks in the salt-worn stone and bracing himself with his hand. He’d been too long aboard ship. It was a relief to work the knots out of his muscles.

He reached the ground without anybody seeing him and joined a crowd of traders gossiping in Greek. The merchants seemed uneasy, though Malik couldn’t understand their language. As soon as he could he slipped away and headed east to the caravanserai where he’d left Altaïr. Restlessness tugged at him as he walked, and he craned his neck to catch a last glimpse of snow before the mountains vanished behind the buildings.

That morning Malik had eaten food that wasn’t salted or preserved, and tonight he would sleep on a floor that didn’t move. He wore clean clothes. Even better, he’d enjoyed several hours free from Altaïr. He knew he should be happy. He wasn’t.

They’d come so far, along a long hard road, and they still had many miles to go, perhaps eight more months of travel. Trebizond was the largest town they’d seen for months. The port should have been a welcome rest. But Trebizond was not Jerusalem, and Malik could not wait to leave. He just wanted to go home.

The street opened out into a small square surrounded by shops that smelt of sandalwood, amber and attar. The perfume reminded Malik of Jerusalem’s souks. He closed his eyes and inhaled, thinking of the holy city.

The illusion was far from convincing. The cool wet breeze that brushed his face was not the Syrian wind, and the gulls crying overhead sounded nothing like Jerusalem’s eagles.

He crossed the square and passed a row of stalls. The first shop sold stationery and books. Malik slowed to inspect the merchandise displayed outside. Tall piles of paper and stacks of scraped hide were heaped beside reed pens and boxes of inkstones.

Malik would have liked to send a letter to Jerusalem. but there was no point in a message that would arrive after they did. Still, he had room in his pack for a book or a few rolled-up maps, so he went inside the shop. Most of the stock was ordinary enough, and there was less variety than he’d expected from a port. Malik found several maps, but decided against them. It felt like he’d visited every country on Earth. If he ever left the Order he could probably make a fortune correcting other cartographers’ mistakes.

He was just about to leave when something caught his eye. A wicker basket filled with books sat close to the counter. The basket was half-covered by a tattered blanket, but Malik saw enough of the contents to intrigue him. He knelt down and pushed back the cover.

The books inside the basket weren’t the sort you could wedge into a pack. They weren’t made to be portable. They were made to be treasured in great libraries, chained to shelves, and studied by scholars. From the look of it, these books had fallen on hard times. 

When Malik lifted a Nihayat cavalry treatise, pages fell out onto the floor. The Qur’an beneath it was charred. A Psalter’s jewels had been prised from its covers, and the Gospel beside it had lost its cover entirely. The religious books held little interest for Malik, but he found a badly stained copy of al-Ghazali’s _Incoherence of the Philosophers_ , and beneath that, a Frankish swordsman’s manual he’d never seen before. Both books seemed in reasonable condition save for a spatter of reddish-brown stains. 

“Tι κάνεις?” someone asked.

Malik glanced up and saw the shopkeeper peering over the counter at him. The man repeated himself slowly, black eyes darting over Malik’s uncomprehending expression, his face, and the Arabic text in his hands before he switched to halting Arabic, his Greek accent so thick Malik could barely understand him. “Those ones-damaged. No good.”

He picked up the fallen blanket and tried to re-cover the basket. Malik pushed it back and continued his examination.

“Δεν είναι προς πώληση,” The bookseller rocked his head from side to side. “Not ready yet for sale.”

“I didn’t say I wanted to buy them.” Malik rubbed the stained swordsman’s manual with his fingers. Small flakes of reddish-brown material peeled away. 

The shopkeeper pointed at the cover, “Tea.” he said.

“That’s not tea,” Malik said. “It’s blood.”

The shopkeeper hesitated. “Δεν καταλαβαίνω. Interested?”

“Maybe,” Malik said, leafing through the manual. “Where are they from?”

“Κωνσταντινούπολη,” said the bookseller.

“Constantinople? I heard the city fell.”

The bookseller shrugged. “Months ago. Things have changed.”

Malik grimaced. Three years ago the Assassins had managed to divert the Fourth Crusade from Syria. Constantinople hadn’t been their chosen target-that had been Alexandria-but Malik hadn’t been worried when he’d heard the Venetian Templars had rerouted the Crusade to Constantinople. Constantinople had withstood sieges for a thousand years. The Venetian doge was ancient and blind. There was little chance the Templars would succeed.

But Constantinople had fallen anyway. Malik and Altaïr had been in Isfahan by the time the news had reached them, months later. By then, there was nothing they could do. From what Malik had gathered, the coup had been relatively bloodless, but he couldn’t help feeling that it was his fault. “What happened?”

“πού ήσουν?” The shopkeeper shook his head. “Where have you been? You must have just come off the boat.”

Malik let the books fall back into the basket and stood. “What happened?”

The Greek stepped back, putting the counter between them. “The Crusaders sacked the city.”

“When?”

The bookseller held up two fingers. “Two days.” He looked at the books, then back at Malik. “My brother, he is in the city. He helps people escape. These are payment. Kάνει καλό κέρδος, βλ?”

A hundred questions crowded Malik’s mind. If this was what had happened to the books, he hated to think what had happened to the people. “Why now?” he asked. “What changed?”

The shopkeeper shrugged and went to move away. Malik picked up the nearest book, slammed it on the counter and pointed at the torn cover for good measure. “Constantinople fell months ago. What changed?”

The bookseller stepped back and threw up his hands. “O αλέξιος είναι νεκρός. Δολοφονήθηκε. Παρακαλώ μην με βλάψετε!”

“I don’t speak Greek,” Malik snapped.

“Emperor is dead,” said the bookseller thickly.

“Is that all?”

“All that I know. Promise?”

Malik realized he was leaning towards the bookseller, fist clenched. He stepped back and forced himself to relax. The Greek eyed him warily. “The books-you take?”

“I don’t want them. And I couldn’t carry them even if I did,” Malik flicked a coin on the counter. He was just about to leave when he had an idea. “One last thing. You said your brother went to Constantinople. Does he have a ship?”

The shopkeeper nodded.

“Is he going back?”

A few more coins bought Malik directions to the crowded harbour and an introduction to the bookseller’s brother, who looked far more like a farmer than a smuggler should. He spoke Arabic, and nodded when Malik inquired about the possibility of passage.

“Tonight,” he said. “Do you have coin?”

Malik shrugged. The captain looked him up and down, judging him not wealthy but clearly not destitute, and named an amount that raised Malik’s eyebrows. He countered with half the price, and the captain shook his head. “All of it,” he said. “I won’t take less.”

“I could buy a ship for that.” Malik had no idea how much a ship cost, but he knew enough of bargaining to know when to exaggerate.

The captain shook his head regretfully. “Then I wish you luck upon your journey.”

Malik nodded at the ship moored at the quay. “You’re sailing tonight anyway. We won’t cause trouble or take up much room. You ask too much.”

“Constantinople is not a safe place, friend. The Venetian galleys will sink us if they find us.” He looked at Malik shrewdly. “And I think you need to leave tonight. Don’t worry. I won’t ask questions. But it will cost you.”

They settled on three-quarters of the first amount. Malik handed over most of his coin as a deposit, and the captain agreed to meet them on the docks at sunset. “Be there before sunset,” he said. “We won’t wait.”

“You won’t have to,” promised Malik. He flicked another coin to the bookseller from his rapidly dwindling funds and headed off along the docks towards the caravanserai. Travelers streamed past him like the tide. Malik gazed at the mountains and sighed. Jerusalem would have to wait.

It had been Malik’s idea to divert the Crusader army. He’d known the Crusade would go elsewhere, and he’d known what would happen when the army arrived. From the information he’d gathered during their travels, Constantinople’s conquest had remained relatively bloodless. As the seasons changed and the Templars seemed content to manipulate their Venetian allies from behind the scenes, Malik had hoped the city would remain peaceful. Perhaps the Templars had become impatient, or else the Emperor’s death had been the last straw on an already overloaded camel. Malik had no idea, but he knew his decisions had led, however indirectly, to Constantinople’s siege. Now he held himself responsible for the city’s sack.

He was deep in thought when a light touch brushed his sleeve. Malik caught the hand before it found his knives.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he snapped. “At least distract me.”

A boy gaped up at him. The child’s face was smudged with dirt and his faded robe dragged on the floor. Malik sighed and released the boy. “You won’t live long like that,” he said. “You should practice.”

The boy held up his hand and retreated a pace, but to Malik’s surprise he didn’t run away. Instead he said in perfect Latin. “I’m not a pickpocket. “Do you want to buy some treasure?”

“Do I look like I want to buy treasure?”

The boy reached into his tunic and held out a sheet of paper. The page had been cut cleanly from a book. An ornate title inked in gold and surrounded by an ornamental border of gold leaf and lapis lazuli took up half the page. Pictures of stylised, fanciful flowers and a gold-haloed saint occupied most of the rest. “Where did this come from?”

“Constantinople,” The boy looked up at Malik hopefully, sensing interest. “We have more. Come and see?”

Malik wondered if the invitation was a trap. He dismissed the notion with a snort. He could easily handle some back-alley thugs. “Are you from Constantinople?”

The boy nodded. Malik realized that the child must be one of the refugees the bookseller had mentioned. “I’ll come.”

The boy tucked the page back in his tunic. “This way.”

He led Malik a short distance down narrow streets to a large low-roofed building. As Malik drew closer he realized the building was a warehouse that had been quickly and cheaply converted into small apartments for the new arrivals. There were people everywhere, arguing with each other, scrubbing laundry in buckets, and sleeping wrapped in blankets on the stones. Many had stained bandages knotted round their bodies, or a lost look in their eyes that came from subtler injuries. They didn’t seem completely destitute, and Malik guessed these were the Byzantines lucky or rich enough to leave in time.

“Come on,” The boy beckoned him into the warehouse and into a partitioned cubicle hung with blankets. He pushed a small child away with his elbow and gestured Malik inside.

The makeshift tent was crowded. A man and a woman Malik’s age, an older woman with a shawl draped over her grey hair, and several smaller children dressed in tattered clothing sat squeezed into the small space. The boy spoke to his father rapidly in Greek, and the man drew the family treasures from a bag and spread them reverently on the floor. An ivory statue of a woman and child with strangely elongated features reclined awkwardly beside a pair of jewelled earrings, and an icon of some sad-eyed saint.

Malik shook his head. “These are all worth more than I can afford.”

The boy pulled the paper from his tunic and handed it to Malik. “Very cheap,” he said.

Malik passed the page back. “I’m not here for treasure. I’m interested in Constantinople. What happened?”

The boy looked confused. Malik sighed. “I’ll pay,” he said.

Once they understood what he wanted it was difficult to stop them talking. The Crusaders had burned the city and killed anyone who tried to resist. They had flogged men in the streets and raped the women. They’d looted churches, smashed the icons, and used the chalices as drinking cups. They’d melted down the statues, and placed whores upon the pulpits. They’d stabled their horses in the holy shrines and slit a rich man’s belly open in case he’d swallowed jewels. They’d called themselves Crusaders as they destroyed Christian relics, and the worst ones of all had been the ones they called the Templars.

“Templars?” Malik asked.

The father nodded. “They took everything of value. Sold people as slaves. We lost everything we had. But we were lucky to survive.”

“How did you escape?”

“I knew a man before the fall. A Venetian, I think though his skin was dark like yours. When the sack began he took us to the harbour and told us to pretend to be his captives. We found a ship to take us, and sailed here.”

“God had mercy on us,” said the mother, devoutly.

The grandmother spat on the ground. “May God rise up to strike them!” she hissed.

“Don’t count on it.” Malik passed her the rest of his coins. “For your family,” he said, and left.

The alms left his purse empty, so he picked the pocket of the first person he saw, a noble man whose cloak was pinned on his right shoulder, allowing easy access to his sword and money. When a party of women passed with gold jewellery glittering at their wrists, necks, and ankles, Malik flicked a bracelet clasp open as they went by. He pocketed the bangle and stole a purse for good measure before he slipped away down a dark alley.

The alley took him to the caravanserai where he’d left Altaïr. Low buildings surrounded a large open courtyard bordered by a colonnade. The ground floor consisted entirely of warehouses, with tall arched doorways wide enough for carts and heavy wooden gates. A flight of narrow steps led up into the second storey, where rows of windows covered by pierced _mashrabiya_ grilles overlooked the courtyard. Malik and Altaïr had rented a small room on the second floor.

As Malik went up he saw a pair of city guards enter the courtyard. He climbed the stairs quickly and knocked on the door. When no answer came he drew his knife and pushed the door open. The caravanserai was comfortable and efficiently run, and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges. The room inside was clean and bare. The floor was covered with woven matting that smelt of the cedar oil the servants used to ward off ants. There were two pallets on the floor. One was empty.

Altaïr sat cross legged on the second mattress with his back against the wall. Beams of light pierced the wooden shutters and dappled Altaïr’s face. His gaze was fixed on the piece of Eden cupped between his hands.

The Apple was a small, perfectly spherical orb, made from an amber-coloured substance hard as steel. The relic’s glow cast an uncanny light over the dim room.

Malik cursed. He sheathed his knife and locked the door behind him.

The Pieces of Eden were powerful artefacts that gave their bearers the power to vanquish enemies, see the future, or bend men’s minds. Malik hated the orbs, though he saw the advantages in keeping the Apples from the Templars. 

He wrapped his hand in his sash, plucked the Apple from Altaïr’s hands, and dumped it on the floor. When the Apple’s unceremonious removal did not rouse Altaïr, Malik, too irritated to be gentle, smacked Altaïr round the head. The Apple’s glow faded, and Altaïr blinked as if waking from a dream.

“Malik,” he said thickly, rubbing his forehead. “Where’s the Apple?”

“On the floor. Where it belongs.” Malik sat down on his own mattress, away from the relic. “Idiot. I thought we agreed you wouldn’t use it in cities.”

“While travelling,” Altaïr corrected, scooping up the Apple with the care other men reserved for holy books and first-born children. “I said I wouldn’t use it while we were travelling.”

“We _are_ travelling!”

“We’re resting, Malik. I didn’t use it on the boat.”

“Because you can’t swim,” Malik snapped, “and despite what others say you’re not completely crazy. You know what that cursed thing can do.”

Altaïr glanced at him sharply. “And you know the Apple holds secrets. It’s useful, Malik.”

“If it’s so useful,” Malik demanded, “why didn’t it tell you the news?”

Altaïr frowned. “What? Is the pass still closed?”

The Apple pulsed with light. The glow was smokeless, silent, and unearthly, without the smoulder of a flame. Malik looked away. Through the shutters he saw the guards arguing with the caravanserai owner in the courtyard outside. “The road’s open,” he said. “But that’s not my concern.”

“Then what’s the matter?”

“Constantinople,” Malik said. “The Emperor’s dead. The Crusaders have sacked the city.”

He expected that Altaïr would share his concerns. Instead the other Assassin shook his head. “That’s unfortunate. But it doesn’t affect us.”

“What?” Malik could hardly believe what he was hearing. “Of course it concerns us. It’s what we-what _I_ \- planned. It’s my fault.”

“It’s the fault of many men. Not yours alone.”

Malik sighed. He hated it when Altaïr used aphorisms, and it annoyed him even more because he knew Altaïr was right. “The sack is my responsibility. I have to see things for myself.”

“What will that solve?” Altaïr demanded. “The Templars took Constantinople months ago. It was only a matter of time before violence erupted. The streets will be chaos.”

“I can look after myself.”

Altaïr’s mouth tightened. Light rippled across the Apple’s golden surface, and the incised patterns glowed like molten metal. “I know. But we’ve been away too long already. We’re needed at Masyaf. Besides, the Byzantines are not our allies. We have no Bureau in the city. It isn’t like-” He hesitated.

“Like what?”

“There are no Eden pieces in the city.”

“No Eden pieces?” Malik had thought better of Altaïr. “Is that all you care about? You saw the siege of Acre. What do you think’s happening in Constantinople? Didn’t it show you?

Altaïr shrugged. “It showed me this,” he said, and tossed Malik the Apple.

Malik, too angry to think straight, caught the orb reflexively.

He had to admit it was an effective way of ending an argument. The Eden fragment exploded into dazzling light. The glare was brighter than the hottest blacksmith’s fire, intense enough to blind. Malik brought his hand up to shade his eyes, which only brought the Apple closer to his face. He saw the radiant shadows of his bones before the light engulfed the room. The last sensation he remembered was the weight of the Apple in his hand.

Malik had experienced the Eden pieces before. He hated the Apples. As the light faded, he thought of all the things he was going to do to Altaïr when he woke.

When his eyes opened, he was following an eagle. The bird soared in front of and slightly below him, so close that Malik saw white down ruffle beneath the overlapping feathers of the bird’s body. Sunlight gilded the eagle’s feathers as the bird changed direction past towering clouds like castles in the sky. and the setting sun descended into fire.

Malik looked down past the bird and recognized the peaks he had climbed with Altaïr in younger days. As they passed the southern village of al-Rusafa Malik saw a dark shadow in the valley that became a great army, flying black horsehair banners. The bird flew over the horde without pausing. Malik tried to look back, but the bird never slowed. Ahead the spires of Masyaf seemed an extension of the mountain.

When they reached the castle the eagle swooped low and circled round the walls. Malik saw people leaving. Villagers and craftsmen, novices, and families carried packs, pushed carts, or rode small, strong mountain horses. They spread out from the castle down the eastern roads into the desert, west towards the coast, or north into the hills, in every direction except south towards the army. Every group was different, but they all contained at least one robed Assassin. The people went without hurry, as if they knew what was coming. Wrapped inside the Apple’s vision, Malik knew why. 

The eagle perched above the gates, where an ancient man watched the people go. It took Malik a few moments to recognize Altaïr. There was no sign of Maria, Darim, Sef, or Malik. Only Altaïr, alone.

Once the last of the people had left, the old man shook his head and went inside the castle. There was nothing but the sound of the wind, snapping Assassin banners against the poles as it whistled down the valley. Malik waited, but Altaïr did not return. Then the eagle screamed, and Malik woke.

Little had changed. The light lancing through the window lattice was just the same, though the argument outside seemed louder. Malik shook his head to clear his thoughts and held out the Apple to Altaïr. The artefact still shone faintly, though its incandescent light had faded to a warm glow.

“Did you see it?” Altaïr leaned over and took the Apple. “What do you think?”

“You got fat,” Malik said, but his heart wasn’t in it.

Altaïr wrapped the Apple in a square of cloth and tucked the relic away. “You can see why I want to return to Masyaf. The Mongols are coming. We must prepare.”

“Altaïr, what we saw is years away.” Malik rested his chin on his hand and studied Altaïr, searching for the old man hidden in his friend’s face. “Unless you aged badly, we’ve got time. The Templars are sacking Constantinople now. Shouldn’t we at least try to fight them?”

“The sack of Constantinople is the work of greedy men,” said Altaïr, “Not Templars.”

“I’d feel better if it was some Templar plot. If it’s the work of men with free will then what’s the use of having it?

“You sound like a Templar yourself.”

“Perhaps so,” Malik agreed.

Altaïr shook his head. “Constantinople will be crawling with Templars. You shouldn’t go.”

“Why not? Everything’s permitted.”

“You know that’s not what the Creed means.”

“It’s the Creed, Altaïr. It means whatever we want it to. If you don’t give me permission then I’ll travel alone. I’ll meet you at Masyaf.”

“Then it seems I have no choice,” Altaïr said. “I will come. With the Apple.”

“What?” Malik realized he hadn’t thought his plan through. “No. At least send the cursed thing back.”

“The only man I’d trust with it is you,” Altaïr said with satisfaction. “I’ve decided. We’ll go to the docks and find a ship.”

“I already have. And money to pay for our passage.” Malik reached into his sash and took out the trinkets he’d stolen. Coins chinked as he set the purses on the floor.

Altaïr picked up the bracelet and raised it to the light. Gems sparkled. “Where did you get this?”

“Where do you think?”

Altaïr peered through the shutters at the guards. “This jewellery is too distinctive. You should have stuck to coin. When do we leave?”

“On the evening tide.”

Altaïr nodded. “Good.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we all have our own ways of dealing with coronavirus and apparently my method is to write a forty -thousand- word adventure story. The Greek script is Google translate, so apologies to any Greek speakers. Because I’m a massive history geek this story has footnotes, and one of the sources was this wonderful map of trade routes: https://merchantmachine.co.uk/medieval-trade-routes/ which is amazing if you like historical maps and travel in general.  
> For the story of what happened to Malik and Altaïr in Persepolis, try my story By the Stars Men Guide Themselves.


	2. Chapter 2

_Malik._

They went to the docks and boarded the ship without trouble.

As thy sailed out of the harbour Malik stood on deck and watched the mountains recede across the leaden sea. Beside him, Altaïr eyed the waves with wary caution, gripping the hilt of his sword as the blade would save him from the ocean. The captain, who assumed the Assassins were adventurers after what was left of Constantinople’s treasure, ignored them both. 

As the sun flooded the horizon Altaïr slid down beneath the gunwales and wrapped himself in his cloak. “I’m going to sleep.”

“Shouldn’t we set a watch?”

Altaïr shrugged and pulled his cowl across his face. “Wake me when you get tired. I know you won’t sleep yet.”

Malik snorted, though he knew Altaïr was right. He leaned over the rail and looked out at the sea. He’d never liked the ocean. You couldn’t climb it. You couldn’t fight it, and if it wanted to kill you, you could do little to stop it. He was out of his depth in more ways than one.

The waves grew choppy as they left the coast behind. The churning sea matched the turmoil in Malik’s mind. A dozen pessimistic thoughts chased through his head. Had he made the wrong decision? Should he have followed his heart and headed to Jerusalem? What exactly would he find in Constantinople?

The waves skimmed past as the ship sailed into the sunset. Seabirds flew past them towards land. The ocean darkened, and the evening wind grew icy cold. Malik pulled his cloak across his face against the bitter breeze and envied Altaïr’s rest.

They spent two days sailing west along the coast. In the small hours of the morning of the third day, Malik woke Altaïr and huddled down to sleep himself. It seemed only moments later that he woke to a brightening sky and someone shouting in Greek. He saw a city floating on the waves like a mirage and realized they were close to shore. Then his view was blocked by something big and dark and he fought his way to his feet.

“Malik, move!” shouted Altaïr.

Malik threw himself backwards as the dark shape split their boat in two. Salt spray stung his eyes as the deck tilted crazily. Within a heartbeat Malik was in water up to his knees, then to his waist. He jumped into the sea, though by then he was deep enough it was a less of a jump and more of a flounder.

His vantage abruptly vanished, taking with it any sense of direction. He had a moment to realize that waves that seemed small from a deck were higher than his head before the weight of his clothes and weapons dragged him down.

Malik had not swum in deep water since he’d lost his arm, but once he controlled his thrashing he found he could just about keep his head above the surface. He took a deep breath and ducked beneath the waves. His belt had swollen in the seawater and it took him longer than he liked to unbuckle his knives. Swimming with all the strength he could muster, he let the weapons fall away and dived down to unfasten his boots. As he shivered in the freezing sea, Malik knew he had to find something floating quickly. He had no idea which way to swim. 

There was no sign of the ship and nothing drifting nearby. In seafarers’ stories there was always a hatch cover or loose barrel to use as a raft. Malik had a nasty feeling this was because the sailors who didn’t find some floating debris didn’t survive to tell their tales.

Malik blinked bitter water from his eyes. “Altaïr!”

A wave slapped his face. He saw something white floating in the water, thrashed his way over and saw Altaïr flailing in the waves.

Malik’s relief didn’t last long. Altaïr reached out, caught Malik’s hood, and dunked them both.

Malik came up spluttering. “Get off!”

Altaïr grabbed him again and Malik struggled free. His fist caught Altaïr’s chin more from luck than judgment. The blow sent them both under.

“Idiot!” Malik hissed. His words were cut off in a stream of bubbles as Altaïr lunged at him again. “Altaïr-stop!”

As if prompted, Altaïr sank beneath the waves.

Malik would have cursed if he’d had breath to spare. He wasted a moment gaping at the empty waves where Altaïr had been before he dived.

The grey water darkened as he descended. Malik was lucky he remembered Altaïr’s location, and luckier still the Assassins wore white. Altaïr was a pale blur below him.

Malik caught Altaïr’s shoulder and pulled. He brought the other Assassin to the surface easily enough. Keeping him there was much more difficult.

Malik kicked upwards, using his free hand to hold Altaïr’s head out of the water, and realized he couldn’t keep swimming for much longer. His leg muscles were already cramping from the insidious cold. He looked around and saw nothing but darkness. There was no sign of the city he’d seen from the ship.

Malik tipped his head back and opened his mouth to shout for help. As he inhaled a wave struck him in the face. He coughed and sucked in water as he fought the weight that dragged him down. His lungs burned like iron bands round his ribs as seawater filled his lungs. The pain was paralysing. He hadn’t expected drowning to hurt this badly.

Then something touched his leg.

With his last lucid thought, Malik wondered if the Black Sea had crocodiles.

A rush of cold air forced him awake. Something heavy and limp pressed into his side and a web of rough ropes dug into his ribs. Malik gasped for breath as dark waves skimmed by beneath him. He realized he was in a net just before it opened and dumped him on a deck. He choked and spat sour water. His chest ached, but the pain was fading fast.

He looked around and saw Altaïr lying beside him, facing away. Water ran from Altaïr’s robes and soaked the planks beneath him. He wasn’t moving.

Malik crawled over and fumbled for a pulse in Altaïr’s throat. He thought he found one, though he couldn’t be sure. Altaïr’s skin was icy and Malik’s hand was clumsy from the cold. Malik smacked Altaïr on the back with the flat of his hand, and when that didn’t work he made a fist and punched Altaïr beneath his ribs as hard as he could. It didn’t work. Altaïr lay still.

“Come on!” Malik tried again, too frightened to be careful. His fist struck bone, and he felt his knuckle pop, though the flare of pain was dulled by the cold. Altaïr’s cowl flopped from his head. His face was pale as marble.

Malik checked the pulse in Altaïr’s throat and found it fading. No man could live for long with water in his lungs. Altaïr didn’t have much time. He took Altaïr’s left hand with his right and wrapped his arm around his waist. Then he pressed upwards as hard as he could.

Seawater dribbled from Altaïr’s mouth. He curled up and spat brine onto the deck. Malik smacked him on the back a few more times before Altaïr pressed one shaking hand against the planks and sat up. “Enough.”

Malik sat back, shivering, and drenched. “You nearly drowned.”

“I think I did.” Altaïr said hoarsely. He pulled his cowl across his face. “It feels like I did.”

Free to pay more attention to his surroundings, Malik looked around. A banner flapped heavily overhead, but it was too dark to make out any emblem. The net spread around him in a circle. Shadows gathered at the margin of the ropes.

“ _Pàrlitu Venesian_?” someone asked. A lantern sputtered into flame. Altaïr brought up a hand to shade his face. Malik narrowed his eyes and looked away.

The man who stepped into the small circle of light was fair, with deep-set eyes that concealed a sharp gaze. He wore a heavy club at his belt instead of a sword. His eyes flicked between the two of them as he repeated his question impatiently.

Altaïr looked at Malik.

“Uh,” Malik said, struggling to recall the Frankish languages he knew. This one sounded like a dialect, and it took him a few moments to place it. “ _Hoc ille_ -” That wasn’t it. “ _Oui_ -” He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and fought to marshal his thoughts. “ _Si_ ,” he said finally. “ _Un fià_.”

“ _Che nòme gatu_?” demanded the Venetian. “ _De dove sito_?”

“Trebizond. Uh. We’re merchants. _Mercante._ Traders.” He had no idea whether the Venetian word for _thank you_ was the same as Italian. He tried it anyway. “ _Grazie_.”

Altaïr poked him in the ribs. “Don’t thank them.”

“Why not?” Malik kept his voice down, just in case. The Venetians were traders, and he thought it unlikely none of them would know Arabic. “They saved us.”

“Who do you think sank our boat?” Altaïr hissed.

Malik looked around at the sailors. Among them were many men who seemed to have no purpose, who carried heavy clubs instead of swords or pikes. They weren’t soldiers. The deck jolted beneath him as the ship skipped through the waves. Even Malik knew the boat rode too high to have cargo.

He sighed. “Slavers.”

Altaïr nodded. “Exactly.”

“Maybe I can talk our way out of this,” Malik said without hope. “They think we’re merchants.”

Altaïr shrugged with a jingle. Malik saw without surprise that the other Assassin had kept his sword-belt, boots, and weapons. A ripple of unease spread through the slavers as the Venetians saw Altaïr was armed. Few traders knew how to wield a blade.

Malik sighed, seeing the slim chance they had of escaping the ship without a fight vanishing before his eyes. “You kept your weapons? Fool!”

Altaïr shrugged again. He pushed up from the planks and stood, swaying. Malik saw no sign of the pouch at Altaïr’s waist. The Apple must have sunk beneath the waves. He knew he should be dismayed they’d lost the Eden fragment they’d gone so far to find, but there were far worse places to lose an accursed artefact than the ocean. Nobody would find it there.

“At least the Eden piece has gone,” he muttered.

“Of course it’s not.” Altaïr touched his robe just above his belt, where the fabric made a natural pouch. “I have it here.”

“ _Basta_!” The leader of the Venetians stepped forwards. The slavers raised their clubs as he switched to accented Arabic. “Tell your friend to put his weapons down, and perhaps we’ll let you live.”

Malik braced his hand on the deck and stood. He staggered back and caught Altaïr’s shoulder to stay upright. “Give me a knife,” he muttered.

Altaïr passed him a blade without looking. “You shouldn’t have thrown yours away.”

“If I hadn’t, you’d have drowned,” Malik snapped. “Look, we won’t last long against so many. You try to capture the leader. A hostage might buy us some leverage.” 

He felt Altaïr sway against him. “Don’t worry. We don’t have to fight.”

“What do you mean we don’t have to fight-“

A glow kindled in Altaïr’s hands and grew rapidly, encasing both Assassins in a globe of iridescent light. The Venetians outside the glowing orb stood frozen with their weapons in their fists, mouths open to shout or curse.

Altaïr slid one foot along the deck. The globe of light moved with him. “Stay close.”

Malik needed no telling. He’d seen Altaïr use the Piece of Eden to command a tribe of Bedouin raiders to cut themselves down, and though he seemed to be more resistant than most he knew he was not immune to the relic’s power. “Did you have to use the Apple? The entire city will know we’re here. And any man with half a mind will know we’ve brought an Eden fragment. _Ya majnun_!?”

“Don’t argue, Malik.” Altaïr coughed into his sleeve. “Look, there’s a boat.”

A small rowboat trailed from the ship’s stern. Malik pulled the tow rope towards them, trapping the loose end neatly between his elbow and the rail and they climbed down to reach it. Altaïr sat down upon the middle seat and gestured for Malik to join him.

Malik pointed to his missing arm and glared at Altaïr until the other Assassin put the Apple in his lap and picked up both the oars himself. “Row, fool. You’ve got two arms. Why don’t you learn to swim?

“Masyaf’s in a desert.” Altaïr said. “I never saw the need.”

“We have rivers.” Malik watched the ship recede behind them. “How long do you think the Apple will hold them?”

Altaïr shrugged as best as he could between oar-strokes. He coughed again and spat over the side. “Long enough.”

Malik glanced over his shoulder, trying to gauge how far they were from the shore. The view transfixed him. The peninsula before them was a solid mass of city. Domes, minarets, and crumbling battlements tumbled down the slopes on every side and spilled into the water in a clutter of crumbling walls. Windmills spun upon the ridge above a great palace surrounded by gardens that sprawled along the headland. Nearby the vast Christian church called the Sancta Sophia squatted like a shipwreck in the sunlight. The city would have been even more impressive if it hadn’t been on fire. Columns of smoke rose into the sky in several areas.

They came ashore beside a collapsed water-gate and dragged the boat up onto the beach. Malik hid the oars behind a pile of rubble just in case. He had no intention of returning to the boat if he could help it, but experience had taught him the value of an escape route, even a bad one.

Even here, there were signs that things had gone awry. Chunks of stone littered the quayside where a siege engine had shattered the walls. Malik kept Altaïr’s knife to hand as they stepped over the rubble and entered the city. A road curved round inside the walls, its marble paving gently sloping towards the sea. The streets should have been crowded with merchants and shoppers, but there was no sign of any living soul.

The shops bordering the street were built along long colonnades. Torn awnings flapped in the breeze. The stalls were all empty, looted or abandoned. A pile of splintered wood that might have once been a wagon and the bloated corpse of a mule blocked the street to the south. Beside it lay a heap of bloodstained rags. A limp hand stretched towards the sky in useless supplication.

Malik crouched down to check the body. When Altaïr glanced over, he shook his head.

Beyond the woman’s corpse someone had moved the splintered wood to make an easier passage. It was the first sign of life they’d seen. The city seemed deserted, though Malik thought he heard a faint scream upon the wind. He hoped that he was wrong, that the shriek was a seagull circling overhead. He did not think so.

They climbed over the wagon and continued. Further on they found a crossroads with a fountain and took turns to drink from the spout. Malik wiped his mouth on his wet sleeve and remembered that Altaïr had carried the bag with their supplies. “Did you save any food?”

“Just the Apple.”

“Typical,” snapped Malik. The sunrise had faded. Chill rain wept from a leaden sky and wind swept down the narrow streets like a herald of ill tidings. He was already shaking from the cold, and from the look of the sky, the day did not promise to improve.

“What’s your plan?”

Malik had hoped Altaïr wouldn’t ask. “We should find a dry place to rest.”

“And after that?”

“Learn what we can. Help if we’re able. Find allies and seek out the Templars.”

“There will be Templars here,” Altaïr agreed. He pointed at the steep street rising to their right. “This way looks more promising. There are houses.”

They headed uphill. Something light touched Malik’s face. When he brushed it away, his hand left a smear of ash. He glanced up at the sky and saw scraps of burned paper falling like snow.

“You mentioned allies.” Altaïr brushed cinders from his sleeve. “Isn’t Marîd here?”

“Last I heard he said he’d leave the city once the Crusade was done. It’s been six months. He’s probably back at Masyaf now.”

“I thought he was meant to have left before the Crusade reached Constantinople?”

Malik stepped around a dead mule. “I sent messages. He ignored them. Said he could help more this way. He’s stubborn.”

“Yes. A mystery who he learned that from.” Altaïr coughed again. “I think I swallowed half the sea. Marîd’ll be back in Syria before we are. Don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried about Marîd,” Malik said. “I’m more worried about you. Should your chest be making sounds like that?”

Altaïr ignored him. “I understand. I worry about my sons too.”

Malik snorted. “You should. You left Maria at Masyaf with two boys under five. We’ve been gone over a year. She probably thinks you’re dead. When we arrive, you’ll no doubt wish you were.”

“Darim’s seven.” Altaïr cleared his throat, wincing. “Maria will be fine.”

Malik raised his eyebrows as Altaïr hacked again. He and Maria had a relationship based on mutual wary respect. He hated to think what she would do if he returned without Altaïr.

“Come on,” he said, half to himself, and half to Altaïr. “We need to find somewhere to rest.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The travel times mentioned in this story are highly suspect, but then we all know the AC games are the king of narratively convenient geography. For a beautiful model of Constantinople in 1200 BC, check out https://www.byzantium1200.com/ which has some links to some highly soothing youtube videos.  
> For the story of how Malik and Altaïr met Marîd, try my story The Word of God and the Treasures of Wisdom.


	3. Chapter 3

_Marîd._

The sun rose in the west.

It was not a natural light. Marîd would have known that even without the true sunrise across the water to the east, where a sky the colour of saffron, amber, and tulip-petal pink briefly brightened another grey and drizzling day.

The glow across the western sea was a honey-coloured sphere of light that reminded Marîd of the circle of light cast by an oil lamp’s flame. Marîd recognized that light. He’d seen it several times before.

“I said, I won’t take less.”

Marîd turned back to the sailor. “That’s all I have.”

The captain, sensing Marîd’s attention shift, named a sum that was considerably lower than the one Marîd had been prepared to pay. Marîd sealed the deal before the sailor came to his senses. He tossed the captain a ruby he’d stolen from a Crusader who had stolen it from someone else. When he looked back out to sea, the light had vanished.

The captain held the gem up to the light. He nodded, pocketed the jewel, and beckoned to his crew. “Load them up.”

Marîd waited on the dock to watch the Byzantines board, just in case the captain decided to offload them when Marîd wasn’t looking and sell them to the highest bidder. Most went quickly, casting nervous glances over their shoulders at the burning city behind them. A few shuffled forwards, eyes fixed on something that was neither ship nor city. An old woman caught Marîd’s sleeve and said something to him in Greek that he couldn’t understand. The ocean remained dark.

The city’s sack was nearly over. The flood of refugees, loot and slaves had slowed to a trickle. Soon Marîd’s work would be done, and he’d be free to return home. He was sick of the Venetians and their ships. He’d take the long road home to Masyaf. He’d earned that at least.

Now he had one last mystery to solve before he left. What was a Piece of Eden doing in the city?

Someone jostled Marîd‘s shoulder. He looked up as a ragged woman stumbled past. She was barefoot, with a blanket draped across her head and a rope around her neck linking her to three more women in the chain. They all had children in tow, half-hidden behind cloaks and tattered blankets. The blank-eyed expressions on the children’s faces reminded Marîd of the children he’d seen in Timbuktu’s slave markets. He made a rapid estimate of his remaining stolen valuables and decided he had enough. As the sullen little caravan filed past he called over to the captain. “Wait!”

The captain glanced down at the swirling waves. “We’ll miss the tide.”

“Five minutes,” Marîd held up his left hand, fingers and thumb spread. The captain gave him a puzzled glance until Marîd switched hands. His right palm still had four fingers. “I’ll make it worth your while.”

The captain frowned. “Make it quick.”

Marîd slid from the dock and followed the women. They weren’t moving fast. He caught up with them in moments. The Venetian holding the rope recognized Marîd and held up his free hand. “Sorry friend,” he said to Marîd, backhanding the woman across the face. “Madonna! I told you to watch where you’re heading, clumsy bitch.”

The casual violence made Marîd’s fists itch for a blade. “No trouble,” he said in Venetian dialect, trying hard to keep his voice calm. “Where are you headed?”

The Venetian yanked on the rope. The women came to a stop. “Where do you think? Down to the docks to sell these sluts to a trader. They’ll probably skin me, but hey,” He shrugged. “What can you do?”

“I can take them off your hands,” offered Marîd.

The Venetian’s eyes narrowed. “You have a ship?”

“No, but I’ve rented space on one that’s sailing soon. I’ve room for a few more.” He cast an eye over the women, who flinched back. “These look skinny enough. They should just fit. I’ll pay you a fair price.”

The Venetian nodded, clearly tempted by the prospect of easy profit. Marîd glanced back over his shoulder. The ship was still in dock. “How much?”

The Venetian named a price. Marîd hissed between his teeth and prepared to haggle. “That’s too much. For all?”

The Venetian shook his head. “Irene!”

A little blond-haired girl slipped from the column and came over. She dragged her feet reluctantly and paused just out the Venetians reach, scrubbing at her tear-stained cheeks. The Venetian nodded at her. “Not this one.”

“Why not?”

“You can’t afford her. She stays with me. If you’re interested bidding starts in a day.”

Marîd grimaced. Blonde hair was nearly as unusual among the Byzantines as it was among Marîd ‘s people. The little girl gleamed like a coin in a pickpocket’s palm. She’d fetch a high price. The Venetian would care for the child until he sold her, but Marîd knew that there were few uses for beautiful slaves, most predictably unpleasant. “She’s too young. She should stay with her mother.”

“Do any of these sad bitches look like her mother?” The Venetian cast a scathing glance over the assembled women. “You can take all those. The girl stays here.”

Marîd traded a little gold cross and a round brooch set with polished onyx for the rest of the women. It was more than any merchant would have paid, but he was running out of time. He handed the jewels to the Venetian and pointed at the ship. “Go on. That ship over there.”

The women went, looking confused. The girl stared after them, her round dark eyes unreadable. 

Marîd felt the girl’s gaze bore a hole in his back as he returned to the ship. The captain he had hired accepted the new arrivals with predictable reluctance. “More? I’ll have to stop for food.”

Marîd dug into his purse. He couldn’t recall exactly how much treasure he had stolen, but as his fingers scraped leather he found a small finger-ring set with a sapphire. He handed it over to the captain. “That should be enough.”

The sailor peered at the ring suspiciously and tucked it away. “I thought you said that ruby was all you had?”

Marîd shrugged. “Do you always tell the truth when you’re haggling?”

The captain spat over the side and disappeared below deck. As one of the sailors jumped aboard to loosen the ropes that bound the ship to the dock Marîd called to the freed slaves. “Do any of you speak Latin? Or Arabic?”

A woman he had just freed pushed forwards to the railing. She rubbed her wrists. “I do,” she said cautiously.

“This ship will take you to Trebizond,” Marîd told her. “I’ve paid your passage. After that, you’re free.”

She glanced nervously around at the other women as the sailor jumped aboard. “Aren’t you coming?”

“No.”

“What do you get out of this?”

The distance between them lengthened as the ship drew away, making any answer impossible. Marîd wasn’t sure he could have answered anyway. The Assassins taught that no man should belong to another, but many slaves still did. Marîd knew purchasing and freeing slaves only added to the problem, but he couldn’t think of a better solution.

He turned his back on the ocean and headed up the ridge towards the Lauseion. The haggling had cost Marîd time he couldn’t afford. A thousand people must have seen that light. The Templars would recognize the glow for what it was- a Piece of Eden.

Why was one here? It made no sense. Marîd was certain that the Assassins would have sent word if they had meant to bring a Piece of Eden to the city. It had been thirteen years since the Assassins had stolen the first Piece of Eden from the Templars. Since then, the Assassins had found four more relics and taken them to their castle at Masyaf. The Templars possessed no Eden pieces, and Marîd couldn’t imagine them keeping a relic as powerful as an Apple secret for long.

Marîd hurried through the streets until he reached the palace courtyard. The Templars and their Venetian allies had confiscated the Palace of Lausus from the Byzantines. The Lauseion was a vast complex close to the Hippodrome. Stripes of red brick slashed the white marble façade like streaks of blood, and empty windows gazed out onto the courtyard like dead eyes. A few stray dogs curled in the square, hoping for handouts.

Marîd hated the palace. He flicked the sign of the horns with his right hand as he passed beneath the arches and entered the palace’s ground floor. A Venetian soldier glared suspiciously at Marîd as he passed. The Venetians used the ground floor to store the loot that was too large or heavy to be carried up the central staircase, and they were jealous of their treasures.

Marîd ignored both the soldier and the gleaming gold behind him. The Venetians looted methodically, by order of their Doge. They took relics and icons to attract pilgrims to their city, and statues and marble to make Venice beautiful. The Lauseion was stuffed with looted riches, and wagons hauled loads of chalcedony and alabaster to Venetian galleys waiting in the harbour.

He took the wide staircase two steps at a time, climbed a spiral staircase to the second floor and hurried along the corridor to the antechamber where Ammar kept his office.

The guards outside his master’s door let Marîd in without a word. The room was very bare. The only furniture was a trestle table and a pair of wooden benches, one behind the table and one pushed back against the wall. A whimsical desert frieze rioted across the plastered walls, painted to amuse some vanished family. Pygmies, camels, pyramids, and robed travellers on horses that wouldn’t have lasted a day in the desert stretched around the walls. 

Ammar sat beneath a drawing of some fancifully rendered tombs. He held a pen in one hand and rubbed his temple, with the other, a sign that something was worrying him. A second man stood in the centre of the room. The stranger wore Venetian clothes, and his deep tan suggested a sailor. His feet were planted solidly on the mosaic floor as if he stood upon a deck. A heavy club was tucked into his wide leather belt. 

Marîd studied Ammar’s expression. He moved away from the sailor and sat down on the second bench, dragging the seat out a bit so that he could watch both men’s faces at once. “You heard already.”

Ammar nodded. “Did you see it?”

“Yes.”

Ammar’s mouth tightened. “Ziani,” he said to the Venetian. “Continue.”

The sailor, who from his surname was a scion of one of Venice’s noble houses, scowled at Marîd contemptuously. “Who is this, your slave?”

“My guard, Tazim.” Ammar used Marîd’s Templar name. “Explain.”

The Venetian was surly to start with, but as he retold the story he became more animated. He was the captain of a galley, he said, who had left Venice at the first hint of the sack, several days before, hoping to salvage some of the city’s treasure and make a name for himself. As they approached the city at dawn, they’d seen a small craft, a fishing-boat, perhaps, or a smuggler, and moved to intercept it.

Marîd, who knew Venetians, suspected the captain had seen the opportunity to make some money of his own. “What happened?”

The captain grimaced. “Ship must’ve been wormy. Sank like a stone when we rammed it.” He sounded aggrieved at the loss of potential profit. “Went down far too fast.”

“What happened to the crew?” asked Marîd.

“Some of them made it to shore,” The captain sounded unsure. “Some must’ve gone down with the ship. We saved two from the sea.”

“Kind of you,” Ammar said.

The sailor shook his head. “They didn’t think so. Attacked my men, they did, despite all we did to help them. They carried some sort of stone.” He traced a rough oval in his hands. “Size of a fist.”

Marîd wondered whether he should hide his interest, but it was far too late for that. “An orb?”

The captain nodded. “Looked like Baltic amber, but it wasn’t. And it glowed.”

“Glowed?” asked Ammar.

“Like a candle. That’s all that I remember. When we came to ourselves, it was sunrise and the ship was pointing out to sea.”

“And the two men?”

“Gone. The rowing boat too. We had a devil of a time coming into land.”

“And that was all?” Ammar asked. “Nothing was taken?”

The captain shook his head. 

“Who were these men?”

“Soldiers, from the look of them. But the clothes they wore weren’t no livery I’ve ever seen. Plain white, with a black coat. Strange thing was, one of them only had one arm.”

Marîd inhaled sharply. Ammar frowned, and Marîd forced himself to lean casually back against the wall. “One arm?”

“Yes, though it was the other one held the orb. And I’ve never seen any men so willing to fight. Half dead, yet they acted like they’d take us all on. Like odds or weapons didn’t seem to make much difference.”

Ammar flicked the captain a sequin. “Anything else?”

“That’s all I know.” The captain glanced down at the coin in his hand and raised his eyebrows. “Is that all? They said you’d pay well. I could have gone straight to the Doge.”

Ammar sighed. He reached into his robe and drew out a small pouch, loosened the strings, and handed the sailor a dull red stone that gleamed like a drop of blood.

The Venetian tucked the ruby into his sleeve with a grin. “That’ll do.”

“If you tell any other man there’ll be no more,” warned Marîd.

The captain looked from Marîd to Ammar, clearly tempted by the promise of more jewels. “More?”

Ammar closed his purse. “More treasure for more news. Much more if you find the orb and bring it to me in secret. Don’t try to pass off a fake.”

The captain looked insulted. “Never crossed my mind.”

Ammar dismissed the sailor after some small talk, leaving Marîd alone with Ammar in the small room. Marîd’s mind was racing, and he missed Ammar’s first comment entirely. “What?”

“Are you asleep? That orb was an Apple. A Piece of Eden. Why is it here now?”

“Depends who brought it,” Marîd said.

Ammar nodded as if Marîd had said something smart. “Oh, I can guess. From the description that’s Altaïr ibn la-Ahad. The Assassin Grand Master. And his henchman.”

Marîd, who had been hoping his master hadn’t noticed, nodded.

“We heard they left Masyaf,” Ammar continued. “Nobody’s seen them for a year. I hoped they were dead. What are they doing here? How can we stop them?”

Marîd suggested the one idea he knew wouldn’t work. “Soldiers?”

Ammar shook his head. “You know we’ve tried. Soldiers. Sieges. Traps, and spies. Nothing works. The Assassins can’t be bought or intimidated. La-Ahad has children, and I heard al-Sayf keeps a woman in Jerusalem. We could threaten their families instead.”

Marîd didn’t know Maria well, but he had fond memories of Malik and Nusaybah. “That won’t work.”

“Maybe not,” Ammar admitted. “The Assassins are devils, and they don’t hold their families dear like we do. Besides, Syria’s too far for that strategy to help us now. If the Assassins really are in the city, we must find out why they’ve they brought an Eden fragment here. Now we finally have Constantinople under our control, there may be no better time for us to seize a Piece of Eden for ourselves. We’ll reward any man who brings us the orb. Whatever they desire.”

Marîd nodded. “And the Assassins?”

Ammar’s mouth tightened. “Kill them.”

“That will be difficult,” warned Marîd.

“Maybe.” Ammar straightened. “The Assassins have evaded us for years. But Constantinople is our city, and if we throw enough men at La-Ahad he’ll fall eventually. The Assassins aren’t as clever as they think. Let’s see how they like it when all of Constantinople is howling at their heels. One way or another, I will have that Apple.”

Marîd saw an opportunity. “Send me.”

“Why would I send one man when I can send a thousand? No. I need you, Tazim. The Assassins must have brought the Piece of Eden for a reason. We must discover why.”

“Of course,” Marîd rose.

“One more thing. What were you doing at the harbour?”

Marîd shrugged. “Following a lead.”

“You were freeing slaves again,” Ammar sounded disappointed. “When will you learn?”

“What do you care? I didn’t use your money.”

“I care because you risk yourself for nothing.”

“Slaves are still people.” Marîd usually tried to avoid arguing with Ammar. There was always the chance that he’d say something stupid in the heat of the moment. But he could not ignore this. “They’re not nothing.”

“Where did you send them?” Ammar sounded like a teacher whose student had failed a simple test.

“Trebizond.” Marîd saw no need to lie. It wasn’t as if Ammar could fetch the Byzantines back.

“What will they do once they get there?”

“Whatever they want. They’ll be free.”

“Free to starve. Free to die. They will enslave themselves in return for some food or a bed for the night. This obsession with free will-it is the act of an Assassin. An act of emotion. Not logic. ”

Marîd folded his arms. “At least they’re free to choose.”

Ammar sighed. “I can’t afford for you to do this now we’re so close.” He glanced around the richly decorated room. “We have Constantinople’s wealth. Soon we will return to Syria, capture Masyaf and crush the Assassins for good. I’ll need you to help me do that. But your loyalty must be unquestionable. We don’t need any more mistakes like that business with Bezio. Understand?”

Marîd understood.

“Stay away from the port. And don’t seek out the Piece of Eden. We won’t be here for much longer. Let the common soldiers take risks. That’s what they’re for. Then we can both go home.”

“I’ll do as you say,” Marîd lied. 

Ammar sighed. “Don’t disobey me, Tazim. I’ll have you watched if I must.”

Marîd shrugged, unconcerned. Let Ammar watch him if he wanted. He’d find some way to slip out of the palace and recover the relic for himself. That wouldn’t be a problem for an Assassin.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The descriptions of Constantinople in this story are heavily influenced by Jan Morris’ book ‘The Venetian Empire, A Sea Voyage’ and Harry A. Magoulias’ translation of Niketas’ Choniates first-hand description of the sack of Byzantium, ‘O City of Byzantium; Annals of Niketas Choniates.’ The Palace of Lausus, or the Lauseion, was in the right location but was probably demolished by the time this story is set, the building’s description is based on another palace, the wonderfully named Palace of the Porphyrogenitus.  
> For the story of how Marîd ended up joining the Templars as a spy, try my story No Name Under Heaven. For what happened to Marîd and Bezio in Venice, try Unsound Vessels.


	4. Chapter 4

_Malik_

Rain puddled on the worn flagstones and trickled down the gutters in the centre of the street as the Assassins trudged uphill. Malik tried the door of a grand house and found it locked. He blinked water from his eyes and examined the walls.

The plastered facade was incised with lines implying vast stone blocks, but the stones were beneath were irregular and would be relatively easy to climb. The windows were all barred or shuttered, but the inner courtyard would be less well secured. Malik imagined the reaction of the citizens sheltering inside to two men climbing down from the roof, then shook his head. They could find another place to rest.

A door two houses away had been smashed open. Tangled lengths of cloth stretched out into the street. When Malik went inside, he found horse droppings in the courtyard, and something fouler in the hearth. The whole place stank of urine.

He met Altaïr in the doorway and shook his head. “Not here.”

He expected the other Assassin to argue. Instead Altaïr leant forwards, braced himself against the wall and coughed his guts up. His breathing had a wet sound Malik didn’t like.

They passed more closed or looted houses. Once Malik heard scuffling sounds coming from an alley, but the sound was swiftly followed by running footsteps as the hidden stranger tried to get as far from the Assassins as fast as they could. When they reached another crossroads, Malik saw the plastered houses taper out into much grander architecture ahead. The ornately domed and columned structures looked like monuments and public buildings; places where they might find Templars but were unlikely to discover shelter or food. Malik looked up at the closest building, which had ornately carved door and windowsills that would provide good handholds, and reconsidered their options. “Let’s try this one.”

“Wait,” Altaïr held up one hand. “I can hear something.”

Malik was about to dismiss him when he heard it too. In the silence, it was easy to hear at least two people arguing down a side street in Latin. “You’re right.”

They came around the corner and took in the scene at a glance. Beneath a tattered awning, a band of men surrounded a lone stranger. The gang wore tunics decorated with the Venetian lion beneath scattered pieces of armour and carried swords. A handcart piled with treasure stood beside them, sad-eyed gilded icons staring blankly at the rain-washed sky beneath jewelled chests and piles of water-stained silks. The lone figure facing the Venetians wore long robes trimmed with fur and seemed unarmed. They all stopped talking as the Assassins approached.

“What’s going on?” asked Malik.

The man who seemed to be the leader of the group, a heavyset Italian made bulkier by a padded arming jacket, scowled at them beneath the brim of a rounded metal helmet. “Who the hell are you?”

“That doesn’t matter,” Altaïr said firmly.

“Like hell it doesn’t. If you want slaves, then piss off. This one’s ours.”

“We are all slaves of God,” the other man said piously. His face was like the icons on the cart, with heavy-lidded eyes and a long straight nose beneath greying curling hair. His sharp gaze seemed intelligent, though Malik knew appearances could be deceiving. If he’d been in the man’s position, he’d have used the distraction to escape. “All Christians here, no?”

“No.” said Altaïr.

The Venetian leader glared at them. “You’re not Crusaders?”

Malik sighed. “Do we look like Crusaders?”

“We’re from Masyaf,” Altaïr said pointedly. When his words failed to have the effect they would have had in Syria, he drew his sword. “Leave this one alone.”

The Venetian curled his lip. “Go away. This is not your business.”

“Please, have you seen a girl?” asked the Byzantine. “A young child with blond hair?”

“We’ve seen plenty of girls.” One of the Venetians grabbed his belt.

Malik doubted the women had been happy to see them. “We’ve seen no-one. Look, this city’s large. There’s enough loot here for everyone.”

The Venetian leader snorted. “Are you blind? This man’s a government official. I bet his house is full of treasure. He’ll tell us where his gold is hidden, and if he won’t, we’ll make him.”

The Byzantine looked alarmed at this. He turned to Malik and Altaïr. “These men are mistaken. I don’t have much, but you are welcome to anything I have if you save me from these barbarians.”

“All these Byzantines are liars,” The Venetian leader stabbed a finger at the Byzantine. “Walk away. If you’re not Crusaders, you’re our enemies.”

“It seems likely,” Altaïr agreed.

“The odds are against you,” warned the leader.

“They don’t bother us.” Malik said, hoping he sounded confident. He did not draw his knife. Let the Crusaders believe they had the advantage. He hoped Altaïr didn’t cough.

“Enough talk,” said the young mercenary who had made the comment about girls. He drew his sword and stepped forwards. With a flicker of movement that seemed too fast for thought, Altaïr put his own sword through the boy’s throat.

The Venetian’s sword dropped to the ground. His body followed it a moment later. Malik was impressed by Altaïr’s speed despite himself, though he was not sure if they could manage a drawn-out battle. “Think carefully before you make another move,” he warned.

The Venetian leader reached down to his hip and drew his sword, a bastard blade still grimed with blood. His four companions did the same.

Malik rolled his eyes and drew his borrowed knife. “Did you really have to kill him?”

Altaïr flicked the boy’s blood from his blade. “Al Mualim always said we should let our acts speak for us.”

“Oh, so we’re following the Old Man now?”

“He spoke some truth,” Altaïr said defensively.

“Then that’s where you two differ.” Malik snapped. 

The Assassins had fought against far worse odds, and Malik would normally have felt confident about the battle’s outcome. Now, barefoot, soaked, armed with a borrowed knife, and with Altaïr struggling to conceal his coughs against his sleeve, he doubted their success. Altaïr could kill a few, and Malik could probably maim one or two so badly the others would think twice, but by then the Byzantine would long since have fled. Perhaps Malik could persuade the Venetians to seek easier reward.

Malik replaced his knife. Then he held out his hand towards the Crusaders, a sign in any land they meant no more harm. “There are other choices. We don’t have to fight.”

The big man scoffed. “You can walk away any time. But we keep the Byzantine.”

“You’ve seen my friend fight,” said Malik. “Try us, and it won’t go well for you.” He pointed at the cart. “You already have your treasure. This man says he’s not hiding valuables, and I believe him. This is a big city. There must be other rich men here.”

The Byzantine’s gaze flitted from Malik to Altaïr and back to the Venetians. “It’s true,” he said self-depreciatingly. “My house in Sphorakion was destroyed in the fire. I’m worth nothing these days.”

“That’s what they all say,” one Venetian muttered. “You could be hiding silks beneath that robe.”

To Malik’s surprise, the Venetian leader flicked his fingers. “He isn’t worth the trouble,” he announced. “Giovanni, fetch the cart. These people are like sheep. We’ll find easier prey.”

The closest mercenary sheathed his sword and grabbed the handles of the treasure-filled cart. A small carved box threatened to fall as the wagon swayed, and the Venetian adjusted his load.

Malik retreated a few steps and pointed to the corpse. “You can take your friend with you.”

The Venetian leader stepped forwards and used the tip of his sword to slash the strings of the dead boy’s bulging purse. He skewered the pouch, flicked it up into the air and caught it in one smooth movement that made Malik admire his dexterity, if not his morals. “He was a peasant, nothing more,” he said, tucking the purse into his tunic and returning to his men. “Come on. Let’s try the Boukoleon again.”

The Venetians retreated down the street. Malik waited until they’d disappeared and turned to the Byzantine. “You should be safe for now. But If I were you I’d find a cheap disguise. You’re asking for trouble in those robes.”

The Byzantine glanced nervously at the end of the street where the Venetians had vanished. “Thank you for your aid. I wish we’d met in better times. You’re not with the Crusaders?”

Altaïr shook his head and sheathed his blade. He knelt down next to the corpse and rolled the dead boy over onto his back. “Rest now,” he muttered, using two fingers to close the body’s eyes. He crossed the corpse’s arms across his chest in the Frankish fashion, unbuckled the corpse’s scabbard and handed the belt to Malik.

Malik slung the scabbard round his waist awkwardly. He’d have preferred a baldric in the Arab fashion, but a weapon was a weapon, and he’d left his last sword at the bottom of the sea. Altaïr passed him the dead boy’s sword. The metal hilt was still warm from the Venetian’s hand. Unlike the unwieldy scabbard, the sword wasn’t too different from the sayfs he was used to, a straight falchion blade with a cusped tip and decorative engravings on the single edge. He sheathed the sword on his left hip and muttered the first lines of the Muslim funeral prayer over the boy’s body in exchange for the weapon.

The Byzantine watched the Assassins with interest. “My name is Niketas Akominatos,” he offered. “Known as Choniates.” 

“Altaïr,” Altaïr said hoarsely. “And Malik.”

Niketas’ gaze flicked over them. “You’re Saracens?”

“Syrians,” Malik corrected.

“You’ve come from the port?”

“Our ship was wrecked.” Malik did not elaborate. “We’ve come up from the sea-gate. What happened?”

Niketas looked downcast. “Ah,” he said. “That is a tale for another time and place, one with more leisure. As you came up through the city, did you see a young blonde girl?”

“There’s a dead girl by the quay,” Malik offered.

“I’ve seen her,” said Niketas. “Irene’s much younger.”

He opened his mouth as if he was about to say more-most probably a great deal more, for he did not seem the kind of person who expressed himself in simple terms- but Altaïr bent over and leant on his sword, coughing as if the sea was still in his lungs. “Does your friend need help?”

“No,” said Malik. He reconsidered as Altaïr choked. “Yes. Look, you promised us shelter. Is it far?”

“Not far, no. I’ll take you now. Perhaps you and your friend could help me search later?”

“Perhaps,” said Malik.

Altaïr inhaled with a rattle and straightened. “Either way, we should get off the streets.”

“You’re right,” agreed Niketas. He turned around and walked along the rows of buildings, casting about like a hound on a scent. “Somewhere here, wasn’t it?”

Malik came round to Altaïr’s left side and put his hand on his arm. His skin was cold as stone. “Are you all right?”

Altaïr grimaced. “I will be. We should have killed those Crusaders, Malik.”

“Or they’d have killed us,” Malik pointed out. “You’re in no shape to fight, Altaïr.”

Altaïr, who had never refused a fight in his life, growled. “You got a sword from it at least. Don’t lose this one.”

“What? I only lost my weapons because I was busy saving your worthless life-”

“Down here,” Niketas called. 

They followed the Byzantine into a small restaurant which seemed to have escaped serious damage, maybe because the owners had cleared everything out before the siege, or possibly because it held nothing of value. Niketas threw back a small door that looked as if it led into a cupboard. When Malik glanced into the doorway he saw only darkness. A breeze of cool damp air gusted from the opening. “Are you sure this is the way?”

“The safest way.” Niketos turned and vanished into the opening. His voice echoed from the darkness. “Come on.”

The Assassins followed. Malik wondered if Niketos really was as honest as he seemed. He shrugged. If he was, they didn’t need to worry. If he wasn’t, Malik had a sword. He’d have cheerfully followed _al-Shaitan_ into the abyss for food and dry clothes.

Inside, the tunnel’s steps were steeply worn and slick with moisture. Golden light flared as Niketas kindled an oil lamp, the flame small and dim enough to preserve Malik’s night vision. He reached out to run his hand along the walls as they descended, and felt carved stone give way to flattened Roman bricks spotted with moss. Altaïr’s raspy breathing echoed from the walls.

“Constantinople is covered in tunnels,” Niketos said from ahead. “Cisterns, tombs…”

“How far do they go?”

“Who knows?” Niketos reached out and patted the wall affectionately. “Every lady has her secrets.”

As they walked the passage widened and eventually it opened out into a stone-lined antechamber. A carved sarcophagus occupied most of the centre of the room. Niketas squeezed past the coffin, shedding seed pearls from his robes. Lamplight glittered from a carved marble wreath as he passed. Blank stone faces stared into the darkness. When Malik touched the stone the surface was polished smooth as water. “Whose grave is this?”

“Who cares?” Altaïr said. His cough had returned, perhaps aggravated by the cool moist air, and the sound of his hacking echoed down the shadowed halls. 

“The tomb is Roman,” Niketas said. “I can’t say more than that.”

They left the chamber through a hole hacked through the wall. The opening was low enough that they all had to duck. Altaïr’s shoulders blocked most of the light from Niketas’ lamp, and Malik took a few painful knocks to his head as the raw rock changed to narrow bricks, and then to polished tiles. Niketas grunted up ahead, and the light was abruptly extinguished. Malik couldn’t hear a sound, but Altaïr’s coughing drowned out any noise the Byzantine might have made.

“What’s happening?” he called into the echoing darkness. “Are you alright?”

“Yes, yes,” said Niketas. Wood scraped on stone as a crack of light abruptly widened. The Assassins followed Niketas through a low doorway that opened back onto the streets. The Byzantine gestured them through and wedged the door closed behind them. He swung a metal grille back over the door and crossed the street to an entrance Malik would easily have missed. The windows over the door were tightly shuttered, and the shutters were covered by heavy iron bars. “Come quickly.”

They followed him over. Altaïr glanced up and down the deserted streets, then doubled over again. Niketas knocked three times, paused, and knocked again. The door slid open to reveal a pair of troubled dark eyes at shoulder height. The woman whispered something in relieved Greek and waved a hand to gesture them inside while Niketas barricaded the door behind them.

Malik’s first impression of the hall inside was one of glittering grandeur. He pushed back his hood and looked around. The entry room was large and circular, with a curved marble staircase against one wall. The walls and domed ceiling were lined in alternating bands of veined green, red and white marble, and the floor was covered with a complex pattern of intricate mosaic bands. In the centre of the pattern a circular wreath surrounded a design of grazing gazelles so intricate Malik could make out individual hairs on their dappled coat. He moved back along the edge of the room, keeping his dirty bare feet off the tiles. Four intricate braziers with matching patterns of sea serpents or dragons warmed the air. Altaïr went over to the closest brazier, heedless of the mess he was making, and leaned against the wall. His robes steamed in the heat.

Niketas had told them his first house had been destroyed. If that was true, Malik realized the Byzantine was far richer than he’d implied.

Niketas whispered something to the woman rapidly in Greek. She drew her shawl up over her honey coloured hair but did not veil her face or retreat upstairs as a wealthy Arab woman would have done. Malik had no idea what they were saying, but Niketas must have been persuasive, for the woman’s brow cleared, and she smiled at them. “I understand I have you to thank for my husband’s safe return,” she said.

Altaïr pushed back his cowl. “It was our pleasure,” he said.

The woman’s eyebrows flew to her hairline, and Malik rolled his eyes. He’d forgotten Altaïr could be impressive when he chose.

“My wife, Anna.” said Niketas proudly.

The lady inclined her head. As she rested a hand on her stomach Malik realised she was heavily pregnant. “I bid you welcome to my home and give gratitude to God,” she said. “I’m afraid our servants have left us, but I can probably find you some things. My husband, did you see any sign of Irene?”

Niketas shook his head. His solemn expression made him look even more like an icon. “I regret not.”

Anna sighed. “Come this way,” she said, leading them through another room into an open courtyard. They passed orange trees swathed in quilts against the cold and in again through an arched doorway into a smaller suite of rooms far simpler than the grand entrance hall. The plastered walls were painted a cheerful red, without decoration, and there was little furniture.

Anna led them into an even smaller room lined with bare bricks. Heat soaked up through the flagstones through the soles of Malik’s feet and warmed him through in a way he hadn’t felt since the Persian deserts. An arched brick oven was set into one wall beside a simple stove. Alcoves in the wall held split firewood and kitchen utensils. A long bench stretched against the back wall, facing the stove, and a curtain hung against the end wall. Niketas fetched some logs and added them to the fire as Anna looked the Assassins up and down. “Wait here,” she said, vanishing back through the door they had entered.

Altaïr sank down onto the bench, and Malik leaned back against the warm bricks with a sigh. He could quite happily have waited there forever, but Anna returned in moments. She handed them each a pile of folded cloth and nodded at the curtain. “There’s a bathroom on the other side of this wall. Frames for drying clothes. Go and change. I’ll prepare food once you’ve done.”

Altaïr smothered a cough with his fist. “Thank you, lady.”

The room held drying racks and towels, and a fountain in one wall that ran into a grille set in the floor. The Assassins stripped and hung their clothes to dry. Malik stuck his hand experimentally beneath the fountain and found the water was warm, heated by the chimney on the opposite side of the wall. He ducked his head beneath the jet and rinsed the salt from his hair. Altaïr cupped his hands beneath the stream and scrubbed his face while Malik investigated the clothes the Byzantines had brought them. The robes weren’t so different from Arab styles, but much more ornate than Malik would have chosen. He picked the plainest one, a yellow robe woven with blue crosses. It was too tight across the shoulders and had room for another man around the waist, but there was a linen scarf for a belt, and a pair of straw sandals. Malik tied the loose left arm in a tight knot with his good hand.

“You should rest,” Malik said as Altaïr shrugged on a cream robe woven with a pattern of birds. “You look sick.”

“I don’t get sick,” Altaïr snapped.

“Maybe,” said Malik, “but you never drowned before.”

Altaïr snarled at him and coughed again.

They shared a simple meal of stale bread and hard sheep’s cheese, with a fermented salty sauce. The Byzantines ate sparingly. When they were done Niketas said, “You look like you need rest. There are bedrooms in the house.”

His wife glanced up as she cleared the plates. “Or you can sleep here.” She held up one hand as Niketas protested. “There are beds here, for the servants.” Her eyes flicked to Altaïr. “It’s not much, but it’s warmer than the rooms upstairs.”

“Here will be fine,” Malik assured her. The kitchen was simple, but cosy. Altaïr looked exhausted, and Malik was tired himself. A few hours’ rest wouldn’t hurt either of them.

The Byzantine couple rolled out beds beneath the benches and left them, closing the heavy door behind them to keep in the heat. Altaïr dropped into an uneasy sleep as the fire burned low. Malik sat up, staring at the flames. After a while he got up to put more wood on the fire and check their still-damp clothes. Moving quietly so he didn’t wake Altaïr, Malik wrapped his blanket round his shoulders and went out into the garden.

The courtyard was empty save for the shrouded trees. Rain drizzled from a grey sky. Malik heard a noise from inside the house and retraced his steps into the entrance hall. The front door was secured with heavy bars that fastened from the inside, and the charcoal in the braziers had crumbled to white ash.

Malik followed the sound around the grand staircase and through a wide door flanked by porphyry columns. The purple stone was worth a fortune, but the view inside stopped him in the doorway. The room wasn’t large for such a palace, perhaps double the size of Jerusalem’s Bureau, but every wall was lined with shelves. Even the pillars supporting the great domed roof held niches stuffed with books and papers of all kinds. He’d never seen so many books before.

Niketas sat behind a tilted desk. His feet rested on a padded footstool as he pored over a scroll. He looked up, saw Malik standing in the doorway, and jumped. “I didn’t see you there.”

“I’m sorry,” Malik said, “I couldn’t sleep.” He looked around the library, at the books that lined the walls up to the columned ceiling, at the marble and the veined stone that decorated the floor, and back at Niketas. “Who are you?”

Niketas set down his scroll. “A historian.”

“History doesn’t pay this well. Even here.” Malik examined the books. Most of them were in Greek. All of them looked old and rare. He’d have given his right arm to read Arabic editions.

Niketas frowned. “I thought you knew. I used to be a councillor. One of the Emperor’s advisors. Now I’m just an author. One of my works is quite famous-perhaps you know it. _The History of the Eastern Roman Empire_? A chronicle of our most glorious of cities?”

Malik refrained from mentioning the Emperor’s many mistakes. “We’ve been travelling,” he said. “History’s your hobby?”

“My life’s work,” Niketas swept his hand around the shelves. “Though it seems I will have to add some pages. Oh wretched author that I am, to be the keeper of such evils, to record the misfortunes of my city from exile…”

“When will you leave?” asked Malik, interrupting what promised to become a lengthy tirade.

Niketas rolled up his scroll. “As soon as we can. I’d much rather be a student of history than witness earth-shaking events first-hand. But it seems fate has other ideas. My wife’s sister, our ward, was kidnapped by Crusaders. I’ve been searching for her for days without success. You seem to know your way around a sword. I was hoping you might help me find her.”

“You’ll never find one girl in this chaos,” Malik told him.

“I have no choice.” Niketas turned to face Malik. “Irene’s more like Anna’s daughter than her sister. We’d do anything to find her.”

Malik shifted uneasily. He would have crossed the earth to find Kadar if his brother had still lived. “We can try,” he said. “I can’t promise anything. Do you have somewhere safe to go once you find her?”

Niketas nodded. “I have friends in Selymbria. We were heading there.”

“I’ll speak to Altaïr,” said Malik. “We’ll come up with something.”

“How is he?” Niketas looked concerned.

“Not well.” Malik thought uneasily of Altaïr’s harsh breathing. “Do you have medicine?”

Niketas shook his head. “No. My wife might. I’ll ask.”

“That’d help. I hope all he needs is rest.”

Niketas looked over at him, eyes sharp in the lamplight. “You too, my friend.”

“You’re right,” Malik admitted. His legs felt leaden, and he was leaning on the doorway more than he liked to admit.

“You should sleep while you can. My wife will pack. I will find medicine for your friend.” 

Malik nodded. “Thank you for what you’ve done.” Before he left he unfocused his eyes and used the Eagle Vison on Niketas, but it gave him nothing but a faint blue haze and the usual savage headache.

He retraced his steps back through the garden, wondering if he could trust the Byzantine. He had to admit that Niketas’ story seemed plausible. They’d seen nobody living since entering the city. Dressed as he was, Niketas must have had a compelling reason for venturing out on the streets with Crusader gangs on the prowl. The loss of a family member would certainly give him a good reason. Malik didn’t know if finding one girl in the city would even be possible, but they were Assassins. If anyone could do it, it was Altaïr.

Shivering with exhaustion, he returned to the kitchen and piled wood on the fire. Altaïr snored, motionless on his pallet. Malik couldn’t be sure, but he thought Altaïr’s breathing seemed easier.

He wrapped the blanket around him and sank into sleep like dark waves.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Constantinople really does have tunnels, and here is a great article about them: http://www.thebohemianblog.com/2015/10/in-the-belly-of-byzantium-the-subterranean-spaces-of-istanbul.html I’m just sad I stole the Basilica Cistern to use in another story.  
> The Byzantines were basically posh Romans, but Constantinople was famous for fine mosaic work. Niketas Choniates was a bit of a badass. One of the robes he lends the Assassins is here (scroll down a bit) https://www.pallasweb.com/deesis/byzantine-dress.html and Malik’s new sword is here https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/24904


	5. Chapter 5

_Marîd._

Marîd was half-way across the palace courtyard when a voice called him back.

“My lord! Tazim!”

Marîd winced. He’d hoped to leave the Lauseion without being noticed. “I’m no kind of lord.”

“Wait!”

Marîd stopped where he was rather than return to the palace. One of the stray dogs that haunted the courtyard came towards him and licked his hand hopefully. Marîd stroked the bitch’s tufted head, smiling as she sighed. “What is it?”

The mercenary shifted nervously. “There’s something you should see.”

“What?”

“It’s hard to explain.”

Marîd sighed. “Find Ammar.”

“He’s not here. I’ve sent messengers, but they might take a while. Look, _please_!”

“Have you found the Piece of Eden?”

The Venetian shook his head. Sun gleamed from his metal helmet. “Just _come_.”

The Venetian sounded frantic enough that Marîd gave the sandy bitch one last pat and followed the Venetian back across the courtyard. The mercenary led him round the side of the building, behind the stable complex and into a small room that might have held hay in more peaceful times. Now it held four concerned Venetian mercenaries, and a corpse on the floor. A shroud of golden linen covered the body, thin enough that Marîd could see the dead man’s features through the cloth. His head was severed from his body.

Marîd reached down to draw back the cloth. A chorus of hurried voices stopped him. “Don’t!”

Marîd withdrew his hand. “You brought me here for this? He’s dead.” He glanced at the assembled faces, gauging their concern. The Venetian who had found him was a stranger, but Marîd knew the group’s leader group by reputation, a big Italian called Benetto.

Benetto nodded. Like most mercenaries, he was a callous, brutal man, but now his face was pale. “He was dead. Then he returned.”

Marîd took another look at the corpse. “He looks dead to me. What happened?”

The mercenary edged thick fingers beneath his helmet and scratched his head. “It’s a long story.”

Marîd folded his arms and leaned back against the wall. “I’ve got time.”

Slowly he drew the story out of them. The mercenaries, led by Benetto, had been methodically looting the residential area to the south side of the ridge below the Sancta Sophia. Pickings had been rich, and along the way they’d acquired a wagon load of loot. The stolen treasure included a wooden box containing a length of cloth, though when questioned, none of the mercenaries could remember exactly where they’d taken the chest from. They were just about to return to the palace when they came across a wealthy Byzantine. As they were about to relieve the Byzantine of his valuables (and possibly his life, though Benetto was vague about their aims) they were interrupted by a pair of men who’d come from the direction of the port.

“We fought them.” Benetto rotated his wrist as if remembering mighty sword-blows. “They killed poor Umberto,” -he nodded at the motionless corpse “and stole our Byzantine, but we chased them away. When we got back here, we realized they were the ones your master’s looking for. The Assassins.”

There was a round of nods. Marîd sighed. “You fought Assassins? And they killed just one of you?”

Benetto nodded. 

“Then you didn’t fight Assassins.”

“We did!” protested Benetto. “We let them leave.”

“They let you leave.” Marîd nodded at the corpse. “So you took Umberto with you when you fled?”

Benetto ducked his head and looked sheepish. “There wasn’t time.”

“You left him there and went to hide your treasure.” Marîd interpreted. “Then what?”

“We didn’t reckon on Assassins,” Benetto grumbled. “Those heathen bastards eat corpses. So once we heard we went back to get Umberto. Found him right where we left him.”

“They cut his head off?”

Benetto shook his head. “They stabbed him. Straight through the throat. The head-that was later.”

Marîd gestured at the naked corpse beneath the cloth. “Did the Assassins take his clothes?”

“They took his sword.” Benetto sounded aggrieved. He nodded at the mercenary who had found Marîd. “Luca had his clothes. He had a new tunic, and there’s no point in letting anything go to waste. We didn’t have anything for a shroud, but Pietro remembered that cloth. So we went and got Umberto and put him on the cart. I spread the shroud over his body myself. And he came back to life!”

“Like the Day of Resurrection!” said Pietro.

“Well, not exactly,” Benetto allowed, “He opened his eyes and he moved, but it wasn’t him. Like he was possessed by demons.”

“Are you sure he was dead?”

“He was dead all right.” Benetto scratched his head again. “Had to take his head to stop him thrashing.”

Marîd raised his eyebrows. “Have any of you got gloves?”

Several of the mercenaries produced greasy leather gauntlets from their belts. Marîd chose the least worn pair and pulled them on. He leaned forwards and examined the shroud.

At first the cloth seemed nothing more than it appeared, a fine linen cloth with a glossy warp-faced satin woven through to give it sheen. Marîd looked closer and saw patterns in the weave. At first the decoration reminded him of maps, with circles marking towns and straight lines running between cities in a grid. Then he realized he’d seen the same design before. Not on fabric, but etched upon an amber orb.

“The Apple,” he said aloud, and reached out for the cloth.

“What’s going on?”

Ammar stood in the doorway, arms folded. The mercenaries pointed at Marîd, who sighed and summarized Benetto’s speech.

Ammar looked intrigued. He peered at the cloth but made no move towards it. Instead he gestured to Marîd. “Go on,” he said, shifting back towards the door. “Pick it up.”

Marîd reached out and caught the cloth between thumb and forefinger. Nothing happened. Marîd had been reasonably sure the gloves would protect him from the relic’s power, but it was nice to have confirmation.

Ammar grimaced, glancing away as Marîd leaned in. Benetto had been right. Umberto was dead, and naked. His eyes had been closed before rigor set in, and his head had been hacked from his body. There was a neat wound through the hollow of his throat.

“Where’s the box?” asked Ammar. Benetto produced a surprisingly small wooden chest. “Fold up the cloth. Put it in there.”

Marîd did as he was told and looked up at Ammar. “What next?”

“You mercenaries go.” Ammar turned to Benetto and jerked his head at the dead man. “Take him with you.”

“What should we do with him?”

“I don’t care. Bury him in consecrated ground, or toss him in the gutter. Just take him away.”

Benetto nodded to two of the other mercenaries. As they hoisted the decapitated body awkwardly by feet and shoulders he reached over and grabbed Umberto’s head by its hair. “Anything else, lord?”

“No,” said Ammar.

The mercenaries left with the corpse. Ammar squatted down and peered at the folded fabric. “What do you think? Did you notice the markings? They’re the same as the ones on the Apples of Eden.”

Marîd leaned back against the wall. From his position he could just see the cloth over the rim of the open box. The fabric gleamed like water. “They certainly look similar.”

“These idiots have found us a powerful artefact. Who knows what it can do? Perhaps it can heal wounds. Perhaps it can raise the dead.”

“It doesn’t seem to have done a very good job on Umberto.”

“From the sound of it, he was dead for a while.” Ammar edged closer to the box but made no move to touch the shroud. “I’d like to try an experiment. Bring me a bird.”

“A bird?” Marîd wondered what his master had in mind.

Ammar nodded. “Try the kitchens.”

Puzzled, Marîd climbed the stairs and went to find the palace kitchens. They were some way from the main building, on the opposite side of the courtyard, and Marîd thought whoever had lived there must have been used to eating their meals cold in winter. 

Like so many of the palace rooms, the kitchens had been gutted, then restocked with whatever implements the Venetian cooks could find. He explained what he wanted to one of the cooks, who gave him a pigeon too old for good eating. Marîd, used to messenger birds, caught the pigeon’s legs between the fingers of his left hand and wrapped his thumb over the wings.

He found Ammar kneeling on the floor by the box. Ammar jumped and moved away when Marîd entered, looking guilty, although he hadn’t been touching the shroud. “Did you find it?”

Marîd held out the pigeon. The pigeon cooed and rotated its head, glaring up at Marîd with mad orange eyes.

Ammar nodded. “Good. Now wring its neck.”

“The Venetians said the shroud doesn’t work on dead things,” Marîd objected.

“If it doesn’t work you can give the bird back to the cooks.” Ammar shrugged. “Give me your gloves. We can eat it for dinner.”

“It’ll be tough,” Marîd warned, handing over his borrowed gloves. It had been a long time since he’d last tasted pigeon pie, cooked in the Moroccan style with layered sweet-savoury dough.

Ammar tugged on the gloves and flexed his fists, grimacing at the greasy touch of the leather. Then he reached into the box, picked up the shroud and flicked it open with a snap. He folded the cloth a couple of times until it was the size of a small tablecloth and held out his hands to Marîd.

Marîd edged back to make sure the cloth didn’t touch him. “Are you sure?”

Ammar nodded. “Stop being squeamish. You’re wasting time.”

Marîd caught the pigeon’s head between the thumb and finger of his right hand and twisted its neck. The bird went limp. Ammar held out his hands and Marîd dropped the dead bird in the shroud without touching the cloth. Ammar wrapped the shroud around the pigeon. Nothing moved. After a few moments, Marîd relaxed.

“Pigeon pie tonight,” he said to Ammar.

“You’re containing your enthusiasm well,” Ammar lowered his hands. “I think we just need to wait a while.”

Marîd shook his head. “I think this is a bad idea.” he said as Ammar cradled the shrouded bird in his arms.

Ammar looked down as the shroud began to move. “Don’t you see what this can do?”

A creeping sense of unease raised the hairs on Marîd’s neck as he watched the fabric writhe. Ammar held the bundle with one hand and pulled at the cloth with the other, trying to untangle the folds. “Help me,” he ordered.

Marîd opened his mouth to tell Ammar they only had one set of gloves and that if the shroud was related to the Pieces of Eden there was no way he was going to touch the bird with his bare skin, when the pigeon rocketed from the cloth. The bird shot up vertically, shedding feathers as it went, wings whistling like a blade slashing the air. Marîd ducked. The pigeon went over his head and out the open door. Ammar cursed and darted after it. Marîd followed him just in time to see the pigeon disappear behind the Sancta Sophia’s domes.

“You could have caught it,” Ammar grumbled.

“I didn’t have time,” Marîd protested. It was a lie. He could have caught the pigeon; he hadn’t wanted to.

“Did you notice anything about it? Anything strange?”

“It came to life,” said Marîd. He wondered what would happen if anyone decided to eat the pigeon. He’d lost his appetite for pigeon pie.

Ammar nodded. “I knew it would.”

“How?” Marîd asked.

“I thought I heard a voice. A whisper in my head. I didn’t understand the language, but I knew what it said.”

Marîd didn’t like the sound of that. “What did it say?”

Ammar shook a few feathers from the shroud and folded the cloth. “I’m not sure. Perhaps I heard an echo. Some sound from upstairs. Or nothing.”

“You must have some idea.”

“It said it could heal wounds.” Ammar set the folded cloth back in the box. He replaced the lid and peeled off his borrowed gloves. “We should try more experiments.”

Marîd shook his head. “You’re not using it on me.”

“I don’t intend to. We’ll start with animals before we try a living person. Thanks to those idiots, we already know it doesn’t work on corpses which aren’t fresh.”

“You’d try it on a volunteer?”

“A prisoner or some such.” Ammar shrugged. “Those studies will come later. At least we know what the Assassins are after. Now that we have the shroud, they’ll come to us.”

“They will?”

“Yes. We’ll set a trap for them.” Ammar picked up the casket. “And I know just the place.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Shrouds of Eden feature in the Facebook AC game Project Legacy. They’re pretty creepy things. Moroccan pigeon pie, on the other hand, is called pastilla and it’s delicious!  
> Benetto was going to be called Baudolino in homage to Umberto Eco’s novel which starts with Niketas Choniates being saved from the sack of Constantinople by an Italian mercenary called Baudolino, but Baudolino’s way too cool.


	6. Chapter 6

_Malik._

Malik woke from a confused dream. It took him a moment to compose himself before he sat up and looked around. The fire’s dying embers bathed the small room in red light which didn’t help the headache pounding at his temples.

Malik winced, pinched the bridge of his nose, and blamed the Eagle’s vision he’d used on Niketas. A faint humming sound rang in his ears. It wasn’t until Malik’s head cleared that he realised the sound was coming from the Apple.

Malik grimaced. The artefacts were cursed. The sooner they delivered the Apple to Masyaf, the better. The Eden piece would be safe in Altaïr’s vault beneath the castle. If Malik was lucky, he’d be able to forget it was there.

He would have preferred to destroy the relic, but the Apples had a way of turning up regardless. If he shoved the orb into the fire or dropped it down a cistern it would turn up eventually. If Altaïr had lost it in the ocean it would only appear inside a fisherman’s catch like a magical ring in a tale. 

_Next time_ , he thought, _we should wait for the Order to find it before we steal it back_. Let the Templars trudge across miles of desert for a change. Malik had had enough of the Eden pieces for one life.

Malik rose without waking Altaïr and went into the bathroom to fetch his dry clothes. He swapped the ill-fitting Byzantine robes for his familiar gear and buckled the Venetian scabbard awkwardly over his belt. Then he tucked his borrowed knife in his sash at the small of his back, left Altaïr to sleep and went out into the garden.

He’d intended to rest for only a few hours, but from the dim light he’d slept for far longer. The chimney behind him belched white smoke into the cold sky. Flowers drooped in the waning light that lanced down across the courtyard.

Malik returned to the house. The entrance hall was just as rich as he remembered. The front door was tightly closed and barricaded by a single beam. The second bar lay on the floor beside it. Malik had intended to investigate Niketas’ library, but as he passed the staircase Niketas’ wife came around the corner with a bundle in her arms.

“It’s good to see the sandals fit,” she said, glancing down at his feet. “Do you want food?”

“If you have any,” Malik said. It felt strange and awkward to speak to a woman alone in her own house. If she’d been Maria, he could have carried on a conversation. If she had been Nusaybah, he wouldn’t have worried. “Have you packed?”

She nodded as she set her bundle on the stairs. “We’re ready.”

Her bag was far smaller than Malik had expected. From the Byzantine couple’s obvious wealth he’d expected a caravan of goods. Maybe most of her wealth was easily portable, like jewellery. “That’s not much.”

She shrugged and laid a hand on her belly. “We take only what is truly precious.”

Malik wondered if she had ever been hungry in her life. He looked around but saw no trace of Niketas. “Where’s your husband?”

“Gone to find medicine for your friend,” she said. “He’ll be back soon.”

A knock at the door echoed round the hall. The rhythm was the same as the pattern Niketas had used, but Malik thought it best to be careful. “Let me,” he said, moving in front of her.

She nodded, lips tightening, as if she had never considered that it might not be her husband at the door. 

Malik lifted the bar with his hand and leaned one end on the floor before he raised the other. It wasn’t an easy position, as he had no arm free to fight off intruders, but the beam was solid enough that he could use it to block any enemies who tried to force their way inside. To Malik’s relief, Niketas slipped in. His wife met him with a smile and a stream of words in Greek, though her face dropped when he replied.

“I didn’t find her,” Niketas explained, replacing both bars with gasping effort. “But I brought medicine for your friend.”

“We should eat first,” his wife said practically. She nodded to the bundle. “I packed our things.”

Their hands touched as Niketas kissed her. Malik shifted backwards, feeling awkward, as they pulled apart. Then Niketas reached into his robe and handed a vial to Malik. The bottle was small enough to fit in Malik’s palm and half full of dark liquid. “What is it?”

“Are you a doctor?”

“I’ve some experience with medicine.” Malik uncorked the vial and sniffed it, tasting the bitterness of myrrh beneath sweet honey. “This should help. I’ll take it to Altaïr.”

“Give us a few minutes.” Anna said, smiling at Niketas. “We’ll come and eat with you before we leave.”

Malik left them to it and retraced his steps into the kitchen. There was no sign of Altaïr, but someone had upended both the pallets and pushed them against the wall behind the benches. Malik heard movement in the bathroom. He waited until Altaïr pushed aside the curtain and came out with a crust of bread in one hand and the Apple in the other.

“How are you feeling?”

“Better.” Altaïr chewed and swallowed. He didn’t cough, which Malik thought was a good sign. Once he’d finished the bread Malik asked, “What are you doing with that thing?”

“I lost my pouch. I need to find a place to hide it.”

Malik could have suggested some things Altaïr could do with the Apple. Instead he held out Niketas’ medicine. “Try this.”

Altaïr set the Apple down and took the vial. “What is it?”

“Medicine. It won’t kill you.”

Altaïr regarded the vial with the natural suspicion of someone who was never sick. “How much should I take?”

“How should I know? It’s just myrrh and honey. Half should do.”

Altaïr seemed unconvinced, but he drank half the vial anyway and tucked the bottle into his sash. Malik narrowed his eyes and peered at the Apple. The relic was still humming. “That cursed orb is up to something.”

“It’s just a tool, Malik. It had no mind of its own.” Altaïr bundled the Apple into a square of cloth and tucked the makeshift cloth into his belt. “That should hold it.”

“Are you sure? It doesn’t look too secure to me-”

The kitchen door scraped open. Both Assassins looked up as Anna ad Niketas came around the corner. The cloth pouch loosened as Altaïr shifted, and the Apple fell out. It hit the hard floor with a click and rolled across the tiles towards Anna. Malik jerked up from his seat on the bench. “Altaïr,” he said urgently, “the Apple-”

He reached for the Eden fragment, but Altaïr was closer. He dived for the orb. Niketas moved towards his wife instinctively. With terrible inevitability, Malik saw Altaïr’s hands close on empty air as the Apple came to rest against Anna’s skirt. He winced. Altaïr rarely missed his target, and of all times! Perhaps it was bad luck. Perhaps Altaïr was still sick. Perhaps it was some trick of the Apple. 

“What’s this?” Anna knelt.

“Don’t touch it!” Altaïr snapped, but it was too late. A web of glowing light rose and snared them all. Malik saw their rapt faces for a fleeting moment before his own gaze blurred. Altaïr’s expression was intent. Anna’s eyes were wide with wonder. Niketas frowned.

Malik’s sight cleared like parting clouds. Constantinople stretched beneath him like a vast mosaic. The sky was cloudless summer blue, the waves glittering sapphires. The harbours were busier than the port at Trebizond. Fishing boats and great galleys skimmed across the sea, each the size of a fingernail paring. Malik recognized the Hippodrome’s obelisks, the columns striping shadows where Roman chariots had raced. Red-tiled rooftops swept along the city’s spine. Smoke spiralled from a hundred bath-house chimneys to shroud Sancta Sophia.

The vision was far gentler than any Malik had encountered before. The Apple’s illusions often had a nasty sting. But there was just the wind, and the glittering waves, and the sound of hymns rising on the air from the cathedral. As the light around him faded, Malik admitted it wasn’t the worst vision he’d ever had from the Apple. 

When he looked up he saw Altaïr leaning on the stove, looking dazed. Niketas wrapped an arm around his wife’s shoulders. Anna cupped the orb in her palms and wept. 

“It’s wonderful,” she said, smiling through tears. “Just how things used to be. That city exists now only in my memory.” She curled her fingers round the orb. “Thank you.”

Malik had never seen anyone treat the Apple as an object of wonder before. He watched the piece of Eden cautiously. The engravings remained resolutely dull. The Apple showed no sign of life.

Niketas took the orb from his wife. He held it to the light and frowned. “What is this thing? Why did you bring it here?”

Altaïr held out his hand. “A trinket,” he lied. “Nothing more.”

Niketas scraped his thumbnail across the engraving and frowned. Then he clasped the Apple to his chest, grabbed Anna’s wrist and shoved her out the door behind him in one quick movement. The motion was so fast and unexpected it caught both Assassins completely by surprise. Altaïr cursed and lunged forwards. Malik jumped to his feet as the kitchen door slammed closed an inch from Altaïr’s outstretched fingers.

Altaïr snarled and threw himself at the door. Malik joined in, using his left shoulder in case they had to fight. The planks shook, but the door didn’t budge. Niketas must have already pushed the bolt home. On the other side he heard Niketas speak in Greek, and Anna’s high quick reply, followed by the scrape of something heavy being pushed in front of the door. He pressed his ear to the planks. If Niketas was planning something, they had to know it. “Quiet!”

Altaïr drew back and kicked at the lock, hammering it with the heel of his boot. Nothing moved for a moment. Then Niketas asked “Are you there?”

“Where else would we be?” Malik asked.

“Of course we are,” Altaïr spat. “Why have you taken the Apple?”

“I’m sorry.” Niketas sounded genuinely regretful. “Is that what you call it? The Apple?”

“You shouldn’t take it,” Malik warned him. “That thing will kill you if you let it.”

Altaïr elbowed Malik in the ribs. “Don’t scare them,” He raised his voice. “It’s just a tool.”

“It’s dangerous,” Malik corrected.

“So it’s not just a trinket.” Niketas sounded intrigued. “That vision it showed us of the city was astonishing. I can see why men might want it.”

“Why do you?” Malik countered.

“I don’t. I’ve heard the Venetians will trade anything for this orb.”

Altaïr bared his teeth. “Templars.”

“Is that who they are? The Venetians are slave traders, as you well know-“

“We know,” growled Altaïr.

“I heard they caught Irene. We’ll trade the orb for her,” Malik heard Anna hiss something unintelligible in Greek. “I’m hurrying, my love.”

Altaïr slammed his hand against the planks so hard the vibrations made Malik’s head ache. “This place won’t hold us for long.”

“I don’t intend it to. You did me a great favour and I have no wish to hurt you. The room is not secure, and you will escape eventually.” Niketas’ voice sounded apologetic. “I would hope we meet again but in the circumstances I doubt it.”

“If you meet us again you should watch your back,” Altaïr warned. “ _Ya kalb!_ Release us.”

Malik could almost hear the Byzantine’s shrug. “Goodbye.”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor outside, followed by silence. Altaïr kicked the door again. When the planks refused to budge, he turned to Malik. “You could help me.”

Malik pointed at his sandals. “In these?” He shook his head. “Let’s try the bathroom. I think one of the window grilles in there was loose. If not, you’ll have to climb the chimney.”

Altaïr snorted. “You should have told him we were Assassins.”

“Because that would have encouraged him to let us out?”

Altaïr ripped back the curtain into the next room and glared at the windows as if each one had insulted him personally. Malik kept his opinions to himself as they searched for an escape route, but the window grille surrendered without much of a struggle. They climbed through the opening and returned to the main house, but a swift search revealed no sign of the Byzantines.

Altaïr went to the door and lifted the smaller beam from its iron settings. “Help me with this.”

“Altaïr, the door’s still barred.” Malik said slowly.

“Yes. I know. It’s heavy.”

“It’s barred from the _inside_.”

Altaïr looked at Malik, then at the beam. Then he lifted the bar without visible effort for all his complaints and set the beam back above its sibling. “They can’t still be here. There must be another entrance somewhere.”

Malik remembered Anna, in the hall, setting down her bundle. Not by the door for a quick exit, but on the stairs. “That’s what I said.”

It was Malik’s idea, but it was Altaïr who found the secret door, set into the marble down the side of the staircase, with a panel that opened to the touch. Malik raided the kitchen for oil lamps while Altaïr explored the first stretch. “Why tunnels?” he said when Malik returned.

“Just like Solomon’s Temple,” Malik said without enthusiasm. “At least they’re dry. And they’re safer.”

“Theoretically.”

“Safer than the streets. Let’s hurry. Niketas is a scholar. His wife is pregnant. We should still be able to catch them.”

Despite Altaïr’s misgivings, they encountered nothing more menacing than cobwebs as they descended the stone staircase. The tunnel flattened out as they passed crumbling stone foundations. Eventually the stone blocks gave way to packed earth walls that reminded Malik uncomfortably of tombs. The tunnel curved, then snaked steeply upwards. Altaïr stopped before they reached the surface, and Malik nearly set fire to his hair.

“Idiot,” Altaïr brushed sparks from his cowl.

Malik swallowed an insult. He’d seen much better places for an argument. “Why have you stopped?”

“The tunnel forks here.” Altaïr finished beating out the embers and raised his hand to brush the ceiling. The air stank of scorched fabric as Altaïr edged forwards so Malik could see the route. To his right a brick-lined arch led to a semi-circular tunnel that ran gently uphill. To his left a burrow of rough earth ran downhill towards the port, carrying a faint breeze that smelled of salt.

“Is there any sign of them?”

Altaïr peered at the walls. “Not even with the Eagle’s Vision.” He shook his head. “We should split up.”

They both surveyed the tunnels in silence. At last Altaïr pointed to the left. “I’ll take this one. They could have caught a ship.”

“They might have gone to the Venetians.” Malik nodded to the right. “I’ll go this way.”

Altaïr returned his nod. “Be careful, brother.”

“And you,” said Malik.

“Where shall we meet when this is done?”

Malik struggled to think of a logical meeting place. He would have picked the jetty they’d arrived at, but his journey through the tunnels with Niketas had disorientated him, and he was no longer sure he remembered the route. Then he recalled the church they’d seen in the Apple’s vision; something nobody could miss. “Sancta Sophia. I’ll see you there.”

Altaïr nodded and vanished in a swirl of grubby white robes. Malik ducked beneath the arch. He raised the lamp high and walked on, following his shadow.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya kalb: you dog  
> For more of Malik and Altaïr’s bickering, try my story Both Worlds as Our Companion


	7. Chapter 7

_Altaïr_

The earth pressing in around him smelt of dust and bones. Altaïr had been underground before , but he didn’t have to like it.

As the tunnel widened he broke into a loping run, a pace he could maintain for hours without much effort. His chest tightened as he picked up speed. He coughed, spat, and ignored the shortness of his breath.

Altaïr shifted to Eagle vision but saw no sign of the Byzantines. He was moving too fast now to pick up their tracks, so he inhaled as deeply as he could and gave himself over to the hunt.

It was easier to run without the Apple’s weight and whispers. Altaïr ducked a second before he would have smacked into a stone jutting from the tunnel roof and slid across the smooth marble surface of a tomb without much conscious thought. It was the closest he ever got to meditation. Altaïr was not an introspective man. He gathered information, waited for the right time, and acted swiftly and without regret.

Altaïr had killed Al Mualim because it had been the right thing to do. He hadn’t wondered what he’d do after defeating the Old Man and he certainly hadn’t thought he’d become leader of the Brotherhood. He hadn’t counted on the Apples.

The tunnel curved, sloping gently down towards the harbour. Altaïr ran faster, hoping to find the Byzantines before they left the passageway and went into the city where they would be more difficult to find. He saw nobody else in the narrow space, and there was nowhere to hide. It wasn’t long before he turned a corner and saw the tunnel’s mouth. More time had passed than he had realised. The circle of light beyond the arched bricks was barely lighter than the tunnel.

Altaïr blew out the lamp and set it on the floor. The effort made him cough. He fumbled in his robes for the vial of medicine and gulped it down. The bitter liquid made him gag, but eased his chest immediately.

Altaïr checked his weapons before he went into the street. A crumbling wall hid him from the main roadway long enough for him to orient himself. This district seemed much poorer than the streets of wealthy shops where they’d arrived. The rickety houses were built of wood instead of stone, and trees grew in several empty plots. Further up the hill a house was on fire, damp wood smouldering sullenly in the gloom. The beams must have been soaked, for the blaze hadn’t really taken hold, but nobody made any move to put the fire out.

There were a few people still in the street despite the late hour. Altaïr shifted his sight for a moment in case any of the shrouded figures were the Byzantines he was searching for, but none showed gold. He took a moment to consider his options. Then he began to climb.

The ramshackle buildings made for an easy ascent. Wood creaked beneath Altaïr’s weight as he pulled himself up, but he spread his weight evenly over several holds, and the splintered planks held him easily enough. The cheap clay rooftiles presented more of an obstacle. When Altaïr reached the roof and tried to climb onto the shingles a tile snapped in half with a sound like bones breaking. The drop below was only three storeys high. The fall probably wouldn’t kill him, but it was high enough that falling was unappealing, especially in his current state.

He reached through the space where the missing tile had been and took hold of the rafters below. The he stretched and pulled himself up, spreading his limbs like a frog to avoid placing too much weight on any one area. His technique was not particularly graceful, but it was effective. Altaïr rose to a crouch, slid his feet between the ridges of tiles and crept over the roof as silently as a cat wearing slippers.

The next building was sturdier, so Altaïr paused for a moment to survey the street below him. Lines of flickering lights led down to the port, and in the dim glow Altaïr traced the layout of the place. He tried the Eagle’s sight again, shifting his vision without effort, and this time he saw what he was searching for. Two huddled figures made their way down towards the port to his right. Their silhouettes glowed golden, the light colder than the lamps. Altaïr couldn’t see the Piece of Eden, but he could feel the relic’s presence.

The Apples had brought him joy and sorrow, and more than a few scars. They’d found him a wife and a friend and opened his eyes to new and troubling vistas.

Altaïr had once tried to explain their visions to Malik. A man could wield a sword for years to kill his enemies and see the blade as nothing more than a sharp-edged piece of metal and the sword would do perfectly well. But if one day that man sat down to examine the sword closely, and saw the pattern on the blade where the smith had folded the metal, the pattern of nicks on the cutting edge, the minute pores on the leather-wrapped hilt and if he kept on looking long past the limits of eyes, he would see the sword in all its wonderful, maddening complexity, more infinitely beautiful than anything he had imagined. And the sword would never be just a sword to him again.

Malik had called Altaïr a fool. He’d called the Apple dangerous and told Altaïr to destroy it. And now they were both here, in Constantinople, searching for an Apple they’d already stolen from the Templars.

Altaïr crouched down and crept towards his targets. The Byzantines moved slowly. They pressed together as they skirted piles of rubble, and Altaïr, who had expected them to travel faster, drew closer easily. 

As they reached the port, the buildings smartened. The height of the rooftops varied dramatically, switching from single-story buildings to narrow arcades to four-story townhouses within a single block, so that Altaïr was climbing six or seven times the distance travelled by the Byzantines. The taller buildings made it more difficult for him to keep sight of his quarry, even with the Eagle’s vision. He crept over a line slung between the buildings and crossed the street, but that made his life no easier. It was a relief when he reached a low warehouse building large enough to cover several blocks.

There were more people on the streets the closer he got to the port. Altaïr knew he’d have to make his move before they reached the docks. He peered down at the street, judging distance, but the wide eaves blocked his view.

He was just about to swing down and confront the Byzantines when they stopped. Niketas spoke in a low voice to someone just below him. Altaïr heard footsteps, then silence. He edged further along the roof. 

In the sudden quiet, sounds drifted up from the building below him. Altaïr heard movement, sobs, conversation in a language he couldn’t understand and low frightened voices he did. The Byzantines were using the warehouse to hold slaves.

Below him, Niketas said “We have what you’re looking for.”

Altaïr waited. Ordinarily he’d have leapt down, stolen back the Piece of Eden and killed whatever slavers he could find. But from the little Altaïr knew of Niketas, the Byzantine didn’t seem the Templar type. Altaïr remembered Niketas talking about a missing child, but he’d been sick and freezing cold and he hadn’t paid too much attention. He wondered if the Byzantine had explained anything to Malik. Perhaps he should have asked.

Beneath him someone said “Come in.”

“We’ll stay out here,” Niketas said.

Altaïr waited for the Venetians to club Niketas senseless and chain him with the other slaves, but the Byzantine must have found the only honest slaver in Constantinople. “What have you brought me?”

Altaïr flattened himself against the roof. He crept forward on the tips of his fingers and hung his head over the gutter just in time to see Niketas’ wife Anna produce the Apple from her shawl. She held out the orb towards the man waiting beneath the eaves, but she didn’t give it to him. “We heard you had a little girl with yellow hair,” she said in Latin. “My sister. Bring her here, and you can have this thing. Whatever it is.”

Altaïr drew back. He heard a scrape as someone turned. “Do we have a girl of that description?” and below him in the doorway someone answered “Yes.”

“Bring her here.”

Altaïr waited. After a while he heard approaching footsteps, one pair heavy, one light. “Is that her?”

Anna gasped. A small child gasped and darted out from beneath the doorway. Anna caught the girl with her free arm. She swung her round and retreated back out onto the street and into Altaïr’s view, holding out the Apple. “It’s her. Take this. Just let us go.”

Altaïr saw broad hands close around the Apple. He hesitated. The Templars were sworn enemies of the Assassins, but slavery was the very antithesis of the Creed. Altaïr had hated slavery before he’d had a family of his own. Now that he did he’d happily slit the throat of every slaver he saw. He chose to wait. The Apple disappeared. 

“Be off with you,” said the voice in the doorway.

The Byzantines hurried off with the girl pressed between them. Altaïr was just about to climb down from the roof and fight his way into the warehouse to steal back the Apple when he heard the same voice say “Go after them. Take back the girl. She’s worth a lot of money.”

“What about the others?”

He could almost hear the voice shrug. “Kill the man. Keep the woman. She’ll be worth some money.”

“We could have killed them here.”

“No point messing up our own front door. Besides, we’d just have to move the bodies. Find somewhere quiet.”

A heavy door slammed closed. Altaïr ‘s head snapped up as two men came out beneath the eaves and slouched off down the street. They were clearly Crusaders, armed with wide Venetian knives slung over pillaged finery.

Altaïr swore. He knew himself to be an efficient fighter, but the Byzantines hadn’t gone far. By the time he found the Apple they’d probably be dead.

He swung down from the eaves and followed the Crusaders down the street. Though he couldn’t blend in with the crowds here the way he would have in Jerusalem or even Trebizond, there were enough people around the men didn’t notice they were being followed. The Byzantines had left the main street, which was probably a sensible decision given their circumstances, and turned into a small dead-end alley between two houses, which wasn’t.

Niketas was already talking, using a reasonable tone of voice as if he expected the Venetians to listen. “We’ve given you the Apple. What more do you want?”

The Byzantine’s ineffective attempt at negotiation kept the Crusaders’ attention, giving Altaïr plenty of time to come up behind them. When he was only a few steps away he cleared his throat, coughed, and made a less impressive entrance than he’d hoped.

The Crusaders turned, scowling. “What?”

Altaïr held out his hands so they could see he was unarmed and when they were distracted he put his hidden blade through the closest man’s ear. The Venetian collapsed with a gurgle. Altaïr drew his sword and speared the second man through the chest in one swift motion. He joined his friend on the flagstones, and Altaïr sheathed his blade. He held out his hands again, palms open, though after murdering the first Venetian with what had probably seemed like his bare hands from a distance, the gesture was probably less reassuring than it should have been.

The Byzantines stared at Altaïr with wide eyes for considerably longer than the killings had taken. Anna had half-turned, sheltering Irene between her skirts and cloak. Niketas stood between the dead Venetians and his family. They didn’t scream or run, but there was nobody to hear them except for Altaïr and nowhere to go.

Finally Niketas said “You look better.”

Altaïr nodded, shrugging off his cowl. “Your medicine helped.” He noticed the Byzantines staring at him like they expected him to murder them next despite the fact he’d sheathed his blade. Given that the last time they’d seen him they’d locked him in their kitchen and then run off with the Apple, he supposed that was understandable. He nodded to the dead men. “They were going to kill you both and take the girl. Did you really think that you could trust them?”

Niketas shook his head. “No. But we didn’t have much choice.”

“If we did, we’d never have stolen the relic from you,” said Anna earnestly. “We’re sorry. But it was the only choice we had. The Venetians were offering anything in return for that orb.” She blinked at him. “What was it? Who are you?”

Altaïr chose to ignore her first question, because he didn’t have all night. “As I said. I am Altaïr. I’m the Grand Master of the Syrian Assassins.”

Niketas frowned. “What is that, some sort of mystery cult?”

Altaïr was glad the Byzantine hadn’t seemed to notice the _assassins_ part. “We are enemies of the men who sacked your city,” he explained, wishing Malik were here. “The last Crusade came to our lands. We were travelling nearby when we heard of the sack. We came here to help.”

Anna’s brows knit slowly together, mimicking her husband’s expression, but she seemed to have decided that Altaïr was no threat. She stepped over the dead Venetian, bent, and hoisted the girl up in her arms. The child hung on her like a monkey and stared at Altaïr with big dark eyes. “Why did you help?”

“You helped us when we needed it,” Altaïr said. “And I have a family too.”

“What happened to your friend?” Niketas asked him.

“He’s on another mission,” Altaïr explained. “Where are you going?”

The Byzantines exchanged glances. “I have friends in Selymbria,” Niketas said cautiously. “It’s not far.”

Altaïr didn’t have Malik’s grasp of geography. He remembered the little boat they’d left by the water-gate. “Can you row?

“If I had to, we could make it over the channel. But Selymbria is twenty miles away and the currents are too strong. We’d never make it across the strait.” Niketas stared out at the harbour. “There must be a ship somewhere.”

Altaïr followed Niketas’ gaze to the harbour and had an idea.

It took him a while to explain his plan to the Byzantine couple and longer to convince them he was actually capable of what he was describing. The bodies at their feet, killed silently in seconds, helped a bit.

“Isn’t it dangerous?” asked Anna.

Altaïr shrugged. “Not for me.”

He followed them back to the warehouse, letting Niketas’ bulk shield him. The door was unguarded, but when Niketas rapped on it a hatch slid open and a pair of suspicious eyes peered out. “What are you doing here? Those idiots must have got lost.”

There was the scrape of bolts opening. A Venetian wearing a soft, flat-crowned hat peered out of the door. A second man slouched on the opposite side of the corridor, leaning on a halberd.

Niketas stepped forwards, spread his hands “Excuse me-“

Altaïr slipped between the Byzantines. The guards hardly had time to raise an eyebrow in surprise before Altaïr raised his arms, stabbed the Venetian through the eye with his hidden blade and put his dagger through the second man’s throat. Both men slumped to the floor, and the halberd toppled. Altaïr sheathed his dagger in his belt, caught the halberd in one quick movement and handed the weapon to Niketas. “Take this.”

Niketas took the halberd. If anything the weapon only made him look more defenceless. Without a weapon, there was always the chance he might know how to use one. Put one in his hands and there was no doubt he’d never held a blade in his life.

Anna crouched with some difficulty and rifled the Venetian’s pockets. She found a small dagger and tucked it in her sash. “At least try to look threatening, love.”

“I’m a scholar.” Niketas said defensively.

Altaïr stepped inside, gestured to the Byzantines to follow him, and reached through the hatch to pull the door closed behind them. “Stay here.” he said, already half-way down the corridor. “I’ll tell you when I’m done. Don’t come in, whatever happens”

The Byzantines exchanged glances. Anna adjusted the child on her hip and nodded.

Satisfied, Altaïr unfocused his eyes and concentrated, slipping into Eagle Vision. The warehouse rolled out in front of him like a scroll. He saw five Crusaders-no, six-all red as blood. Poor odds, unless you were an Assassin with uncanny instincts who knew how to pick them off.

The closest slaver was in a small cubicle through a maze of rooms to his right, so Altaïr went there first. He moved quickly, rolling his weight across the balls of his feet so the slaver didn’t hear him coming, a skill more difficult than it seemed on the old dry wooden floor. Two doors blocked his way, barriers that would have concealed the Crusader from any normal man. Altaïr passed through the first door silently. It was only when he opened the last door that the man looked up and half rose from his stool.

Altaïr lashed out with his hidden blade. The man reeled back, hand already grasping at his waist for his own weapon, and the blow that should have cut the slaver’s throat slashed his chest instead. He cried out, and Altaïr punched him in the face to shut him up. He couldn’t afford mercy. Not with the Byzantines waiting for him in the doorway, sitting ducks for anybody who passed. He needed silence, and speed.

The brutal blow reduced the Crusader’s cries to muffled groans. Altaïr hit the slaver again in the stomach, doubling him over, and stabbed his opponent in the nape of the neck as the Crusader bent, blinded by blood, and still fumbling for his own blade. That left four more by his count. If Altaïr could separate them, the fight shouldn’t be difficult.

But the sound had attracted attention. Altaïr heard soft steps approaching at a run, light and fast, followed by a slower, heavier, pair. The second set didn’t sound quite heavy or slow enough for Niketas, so it was probably a guard. He wasn’t sure who the first set of footsteps could belong to , but he realised a second before the child burst through the door.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do enjoy writing Altaïr. He’s fairly uncomplicated, though from his Codex writings it’s clear he has a deeper side to him. As for Malik and Altaïr, they bitch together constantly but would die for each other in a heartbeat. For more bickering, check out my story From Darkness into Light where they climb a mountain together as kids.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: contains gore and cruelty to animals, portrayed in a negative light.

_Marîd_

The bath house had escaped the sack, though its last customers had left in a hurry. Buckets and scrub mitts lay abandoned on the floor, and a cake of soap in a flowered ceramic dish lay on the raised marble platform in the room’s centre. The air should have been humid and warm. Now the room was uncomfortably chill, and the abandoned bath seemed unsettling.

Marîd reached down to touch the platform. The polished marble was silky and cold beneath his fingers. The fountains were all dry. Perhaps the district’s aqueduct had been damaged in the fires. Rainwater dripped through the star-shaped skylights in the domed ceiling onto Marîd’s head and he shifted and folded his arms. “What exactly are we doing here?”

Ammar poked through the abandoned possessions. “Don’t worry,” he said to Marîd as he righted a bucket. “The Assassins won’t find us here.”

Marîd grimaced. That was precisely what worried him.

It had been a day since the Assassins had arrived in the city, but there had been no sign of them since the mercenaries’ encounter. Either Altaïr was being uncharacteristically circumspect or they had other missions. Marîd had been hoping to find time to search the city, but Ammar’s newfound fascination with the Shroud had given him no opportunity.

Marîd’s gaze was drawn to the box that lay in the shadow of the marble pillars. He shivered, wondering who had hidden the Shroud in the casket, and why. “What are we waiting for?”

Ammar straightened. “Be patient.”

The Templar seemed strangely restless. His eyes flicked between the Shroud’s casket and the room’s dark corners. Once he ducked beneath one of the low arches that led to other chambers, but returned, grimacing, after only a few moments. Marîd settled himself on the slab as far from the box as he could manage and inspected his knives, drawing and replacing the weapons to ensure they wouldn’t catch on his clothes during a fight. The blades were fine, and they’d been fine last time he’d checked.

When Marîd heard footsteps descending the stairs he rose and drew his blades. A moment later Benetto came in, dragging a dog behind him on a rope. Marîd recognized the sandy bitch he’d petted in the square. He replaced his weapons and nodded. “Benetto.”

The Venetian nodded curtly and jerked hard on the leash. The bitch whined, nails scrabbling on the smooth tiles. Marîd reached over and scratched her ears.

Ammar picked up the box and brought it over. “I see you found me what I asked for.”

Benetto nodded. “Just like you said.”

Marîd frowned. “You wanted a dog?”

“Something living.” Ammar set the casket on the marble slab close to Marîd’s leg. Marîd edged away.

“Is the dog enough?” Benetto asked anxiously. “Did you want a person? If you do, there are some slaves-”

Ammar interrupted him. “Not yet,” He turned to Marîd. “You have a knife.”

Marîd answered with a glare he’d borrowed years before. “I don’t kill animals.”

“I don’t want you to kill it. Cut something off. I don’t keep you around to get my own hands dirty.”

“I’ll do it,” Benetto interrupted. He knelt and wrapped his left arm around the dog’s throat. The dog whined as the mercenary drew a knife from his belt. 

Ammar frowned at Marîd. “If you don’t have the stomach for this sort of thing, fetch the cloth,”

Marîd raised the box’s lid. The Shroud shimmered like water. Its glow strengthened as Marîd watched.

He pulled his gloves on slowly. The dog stared at the box and whined. Light danced over her muzzle as she struggled, gazing up at Marîd with hopeful eyes, as if expecting him to save her. He met her liquid gaze and shook his head.

“Do it,” Ammar ordered.

Benetto chopped down. His heavy knife severed the dog’s front paw. The bitch yelped and bared her teeth, but she couldn’t reach Benetto. Blood dripped on the fine marble floor as Marîd took a step towards Benetto and the dog.

Ammar waved him back. “Fetch the cloth,” he snapped. “Heal the beast.”

Marîd reached into the box for the Shroud. As the fabric unfurled he heard a voice in his ear. ‘ _Take the Shroud._ _Close the wounds_.’

Marîd jerked around, wondering if the voice he’d heard was Ammar or Benetto, but both Templars’ eyes were fixed on the dog. The bitch’s struggles were already weakening as Marîd knelt down with the cloth. Blood soaked clammily through his leggings as he wrapped the Shroud around the dog’s wounds.

The dog stopped struggling and panted, chest heaving and tongue lolling as if she’d run a race. The blood flow slowed, then stopped. Slick pink flesh replaced tendon and raw muscle as the stump closed over. Marîd shifted the cloth over to his left hand and reached down for the dog’s missing limb.

The dog whined and lunged for Benetto’s face. The mercenary jerked back, cursing as Marîd found the severed paw and held it to the wound. At first the limb felt like a fresh kill, sticky, and limp, but suddenly it writhed beneath his hands.. Marîd dropped the paw and scrambled to his feet. The limb snapped into place instead of falling to the floor, and the bitch arched in a sudden convulsion. She writhed out of Benetto’s arms and shuddered, feet scrabbling. Her back arched until her ears touched her tail. She howled, jerked, and lay still.

Benetto and Marîd exchanged glances. To Marîd’s surprise, the mercenary seemed just as unsettled by the dog’s unpleasant death as Marîd. Ammar peered at the dog, stiff on her side in a welter of tangled cloth and blood. “Is it dead?”

Benetto poked the corpse with the toe of his boot. “It’s dead.”

Ammar grimaced. “That wasn’t what I hoped for.” He looked over at Marîd. “Put the Shroud back.”

Marîd knelt down and laid his hand gently on the dog’s shoulder. The bitch’s body was as rigid as if she’d died a day before. Her eyes bulged out of her skull and her teeth bared in a soundless snarl. Marîd closed the dog’s eyes, untangled the cloth from her twisted limbs and folded the shroud back into its box. Despite the blood that stained the floor the cloth remained pristine. The shroud’s glow had softened, as it had been drained. 

Benetto crossed himself. “What in Christ’s name was that?”

“That’s none of your concern,” said Ammar.

“Like hell it is! That’s sorcery if I ever saw-“

Ammar sighed. “Tazim, kill him.”

The mercenary spat an oath and whipped around, but Marîd was faster. He dodged Benetto’s blade, drew his own knife, and sank his blade beneath the mercenary’s upraised arm. Benetto sagged. Marîd caught his corpse and eased it down.

Ammar nodded. “You’re more reluctant to kill a dog than a man.”

Marîd shrugged. He felt no particular remorse for Benetto’s death. “A man can choose his actions. A dog can’t.”

“Look,” Ammar knelt by the dog’s corpse and stroked its leg. The severed paw had reattached. The limb was in one piece. “It worked.”

“It didn’t. What use is healing if she’s dead?”

Ammar shrugged and stood, brushing at his robes. “Perhaps things are different with animals. I’ll have to experiment more.”

“Shall I clean up?” Marîd offered. He’d disposed of corpses before.

“No,” Ammar told him. “Leave the bodies here.”

Marîd nodded uncertainly. “What do you want me to do?”

“You’re free to go. The Assassins won’t find me here. You have some time to yourself. Return to the Lauseion, eat, and rest. Be back by midnight.”

Marîd wasn’t sure what Ammar intended, but he wasn’t going to turn down a chance to search the city. “As you wish,” he said.

He got as far as the hallway before Ammar called him back. “Tazim?”

Marîd rolled his eyes and returned. “What’s the matter?”

“I’ve changed my mind. Take the Shroud to the vault in the Lauseion. Make sure it’s well guarded.”

Marîd nodded. Ammar had moved the box. Marîd had to step over Benetto’s corpse to reach it. The casket was surprisingly heavy given its contents and smooth from years of use. The carvings were too worn to make out much detail, and all Marîd knew was that the box looked old. He listened intently, but heard nothing. “All right.”

“Go on, then.” Ammar said, peering at Benetto’s corpse. Ammar was fastidious; he hated unclean things, and his interest in the body surprised Marîd.

When Marîd returned to the Lauseion the courtyard seemed empty without the sandy dog’s presence. There were other stray dogs lurking in the courtyard, but none of them approached him.

Marîd went in through the colonnade and headed to the Venetians’ treasure room. The guard outside the room raised his eyebrows. “What are you doing?”

Marîd indicated the box in his hands. “Ammar wants this well guarded.”

“What’s inside?” The guard looked interested. “Anything valuable?”

“It’s Templar business,” Marîd told him. He had considered taking the Shroud with him on his hunt for the Assassins, but even with his skills he was searching for a needle in a haystack. If the Assassins didn’t want to be found, there was little he could do to find them. Marîd didn’t have the Eagle Vision. He’d just have to hope they found him.

The guard took the box and set it on a porphyry table with three carved lion legs. Marîd memorized the casket’s location as he removed his gloves and tucked them into his belt. “How many men are on watch tonight?”

“Six,” the guard told him. “All with swords.”

“And on the rooftops?”

“Another six, with crossbows. Look, _sior_ , we’re not stupid. Everyone knows there are Assassins in the city. Your master won’t be disappointed.”

Marîd nodded as he left. He went out into the street, wondering where to start his search. It would be difficult to make much of a dent on the city with only a few hours at his disposal. The street drew his eye to the wide Augusteum, the great square upon the ridge which was the heart of the city, and the Sancta Sophia beyond. Marîd, who knew the Assassins’ penchant for dramatic landmarks well, decided to start his search there.

He headed for the vast basilica. The church seemed huge even from a distance, and it only grew larger as Marîd drew towards it. He’d heard men call the Sancta Sophia the greatest building in all the world. It was certainly the largest building Marîd had ever seen. It stole his breath no matter how many times he saw it.

The great church’s dome would be a perfect viewpoint to begin his search, but Marîd hadn’t set foot in the church since the sack and he was curious to see how it had changed. He skirted the great dome until he found the entrance to the outer narthex. The hallway’s walls were lined with grey marble that rippled like water. There was no sign of the damage he’d suspected, but the hallway was so plain anyway it hardly seemed part of the church. The first gates that he found were locked, but the second pair hung open, and Marîd slipped inside.

The narthex was much grander. The walls glittered with gold and glass mosaics in the shape of leaves and crosses. There was more damage here. Sticks of broken furniture were piled in charred circles where the Crusaders had built bonfires. They’d used their spears to gouge mosaics from the walls, and chunks of glass crunched underfoot as he crossed the corridor and entered the dome.

The church interior was dim at any hour without lamps, and black as pitch at night. Marîd waited in the doorway for his vision to adjust to the light. As his vision cleared he saw the ring of high windows piercing the dome above his head. The apertures seemed tiny, but he knew from his own climbs that each window was twice his height. There were domes beneath the dome, half -hidden in shadow, smaller circles and half-circles with windows of their own that supported the basilica’s massive weight. Candelabras the size of wagon wheels dangled from the roof on long chains. Now the chandeliers were dark, and the massive pillars cast long shadows.

Though Marîd was no Christian, the basilica always made him feel like he should wash his hands and remove his shoes before he entered. It was clear the sanctuary had been desecrated long before he came. One heretic Assassin would make no difference now.

He investigated, dismayed by the destruction. The crosses and icons, the altar cloths and curtains, the candle holders shaped like silver trees; everything that was small enough to carry or light enough to load onto a cart had disappeared. The gilded chancel screen had been carved up and carried off. The marble platform near the altar for the priests to read the service, twice as tall as a man, had been sawed into pieces. Chunks of marble too heavy to carry loomed like ghosts out of the gloom.

Marîd knew a route behind the altar that led up onto the roof, so he headed over. When he reached the centre of the massive dome he tilted back his head and stared upwards.

The Crusaders might have stripped the sanctuary of everything of value, but the roof above him gleamed. Mosaics reflected moonlight from millions of tiny mirrors. Rings of golden paint circled the dome and the windows. There were golden frescos on the walls, and golden etchings on the lintels, too high for the avaricious Venetians to reach. The Sancta Sophia bore her scars lightly from this angle.

Marîd remembered the marble and statues in the Venetian treasure vault as he picked his way through the ruins of the chancel screen and climbed onto the raised dais around the altar. There was no sign of the altar; a marble slab set on legs of solid gold, or of the elaborate canopy that had covered it. It must have been small enough to carry.

Where the altar had been someone had set an oil lamp on the scarred flagstones. The oil in the lamp had almost gone, and the small light flickered wanly beside a dozen half-burned candles as Marîd passed.

He wondered who had placed it as he looked around for the first pitch of the climb. The space behind the altar was tiered like theatre seats. He climbed to the top level and caught the slanted edge of the closest window. The route was obvious from here, a steady but steep climb round leaded window sand carved pillars to the edge of the first tier of domes. Marîd visualised the line and took a deep breath.

Then he heard footsteps behind him.

Marîd looked up at the wall and made a swift decision. The sanctuary wall was lined with pale marble to the second tier. Higher up the plaster was covered by glittering mosaic. Five years as a Templar spy had not honed Marîd’s climbing skills, and he knew he couldn’t clear the distance in enough time to be sure he’d pass unseen. Fading into the background came naturally.

Marîd slipped back down the tiers. There was a small archway to the right of the altar that punched straight through the chancel wall and led into the church. He ducked into the shadows and leaned back against the wall.

The footsteps crossed the floor towards him. Whoever it was, they weren’t making any particular effort to be quiet. As Marîd listened the footsteps slowed, changed direction, and turned towards him.

Marîd retreated through the passage, his own boots silent on the marble floor. He skirted the colonnade beside the chancel and used the ruined chunks of marble for concealment as he moved further out into the dome. When he reached the largest piece of marble, he flattened himself against the cool surface and peered out into the dark. He saw only a shadow.

The footsteps paused again and headed for him. Marîd couldn’t understand how the person knew he was there. For five years he’d hidden in plain sight and he trusted the skills that let him pass unseen. He’d have been dead if he’d made a single mistake, and he knew he hadn’t made a sound.

The footsteps came closer. Marîd drew his knife. He’d lined his scabbards with soft leather, and the blade slid free silently. When the shadow was a few lengths away he stepped around the corner of the slab and heard an irritated and familiar voice say “Altaïr, what are you-”

Marîd slid his knife back into its scabbard. “ _Malik_?”

Malik paused. In an entirely different tone of voice he said “Marîd?”

Marîd hesitated. Malik didn’t. He crossed the space between them in a few strides and pulled Marîd into a fierce one-armed hug. Marîd closed his eyes and leaned into Malik’s shoulder. The years melted away and he was back in Masyaf again. For the first time in five years, he wasn’t alone.

“Are you well?” Malik said into Marîd’s hair.

Marîd nodded, knowing Malik would feel the movement. He pulled loose and stared at Malik in the dim light. His mentor looked older, which wasn’t a surprise. He was frowning, which wasn’t either. Marîd had seen Malik smile only a handful of times. Marîd wrinkled his nose. “You smell of smoke.”

Malik’s frown deepened. He raised his hand to rub his temples, which Marîd knew meant he had a headache. He’d probably used the Eagle Vision, which explained his uncanny ability to find Marîd in the dark. “One of the tunnels I came up was on fire.”

Marîd didn’t ask. “What are you doing here?”

“I thought you were Altaïr.”

Marîd blinked. “Is Altaïr here?”

“Not yet. I meant to meet him here.” Malik waved his hand around the vast dome. He tipped his head back and stared at the ceiling. “The Dome of the Rock’s more beautiful, but I can see why they call this the eye of the world. Have you climbed it?”

Marîd nodded. “Yes. Did you find the Apple?” He saw no sign of any bag large enough to carry the relic. “Why are you here?”

Malik’s brows drew together. His eyes flicked over Marîd’s Venetian clothing and the Templar cross at his throat. “I could ask you the same question. Last I heard, you said you’d leave once the Crusade was done. It’s been nine months. You should have left before.”

Marîd leaned back against the marble and folded his arms. “You can talk. You’ve been gone for two years.”

“Not quite.”

“I was helping,” said Marîd. He waited a beat and then added. “I’m not a novice, Malik. I’ve spied for Masyaf for five years. I know I said I’d leave, but I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“Saving people from the Templars!”

Malik’s disapproving voice hid a spark of reluctant pride. “You can’t save everyone.”

“It’s what you taught me!”

“I taught you how to survive! I didn’t teach you to be a fool. Idiot! Did you disregard everything I taught you?”

Marîd shook his head. He pushed off the marble block and took a step towards Malik. “I learned too well.”

Pigeons’ wings clattered overhead, high up in the church roof, and both Assassins instinctively glanced around them. Marîd realised they were both shouting. Malik, who had raised one hand to push Marîd away, half turned. His eyes unfocused and he stared into the darkness. He turned back after a second and shook his head. “Nothing there. But you should keep your voice down.”

“So should you,” Marîd retorted. He moved back against the stone and continued their conversation quietly. “I saved who I could. Put them on boats to Trebizond. I don’t know if any of them actually got there.”

Malik stared at Marîd thoughtfully. Then he nodded. “They did.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I saw them. If that was your doing then I’m proud.”

Marîd’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. Malik’s approval was rare as unicorns-you heard stories about them but never saw one yourself. His satisfaction didn’t last for long. Malik, never one to miss a chance to criticize, continued. “But you shouldn’t have stayed for so long. That type of deception takes a toll.”

“You might have had a say if you’d actually been around.”

“We didn’t plan to be gone for so long,” admitted Malik. He looked away, and Marîd saw him straighten as if tensing for a blow. “Is there news from Masyaf? Or Jerusalem?”

“Not since winter,” said Marîd, wishing he had more recent news. “Asma sent a message. Nusaybah’s well, last I heard.”

Malik nodded. His expression did not change, but Marîd saw the lines of tension around his mentor’s eyes relax as Marîd continued. “Masyaf seems quiet for now. Though perhaps quiet isn’t the best word. Maria’s struggling with the boys. She’s going to kill Altaïr when they meet. Don’t tell him.”

“I have no intention of that,” Malik glanced around them. “That way we can both be there when she sees him.”

The thought made Marîd grin. “You’re coming back to Masyaf, then? You found the Apple?”

“Yes. We were on our way home when we heard about the sack. I felt responsible. We came to see what we could do.”

Marîd frowned. “Aren’t you here for the Shroud?”

“I don’t even know what that is.”

“My Templar master knows you’re in the city,” said Marîd. “We found a relic-” He paused, struggling to explain the Shroud to Malik. “Look, did you fight some soldiers with Altaïr?”

Malik nodded slowly. “We only killed one,” he said defensively.

“Well,” Marîd said, “Let me tell you-“

Malik was a good listener and Marîd ‘s story didn’t take long. Half-way through Malik pulled himself up onto another stone block and sat there with one leg dangling and the other pulled up to his chest, right elbow resting on his knee, right hand resting on his chin, narrowed eyes flicking between Marîd and the shadowed corners of the dome. Once Marîd was done he swore colourfully in hill dialect. “Altaïr said we should have killed them all. He chose a fine time to be right.”

Marîd kept his expression tactfully blank.

“So this Shroud is a piece of Eden,” Malik went on. “You’ve seen the Apples. Like them?”

“No,” Marîd shook his head. “Not the same. The Shroud’s a sheet of cloth.” He thought of the relic and swallowed uneasily. “It twists minds.”

“They all do that,” Malik said reflectively. “Even Al Mualim was a good man before the Apple turned him cruel.” He slid down from the block and nodded to the doorways in the south side of the dome. “Leave the damned thing. We’ll find Altaïr. Return to Masyaf.”

“I can’t go.” Marîd shook his head. “Not yet. The Shroud’s too dangerous.”

“And that’s exactly why we should leave it where it is,” Malik finished

“In Templar hands?”

Malik’s right hand moved up to cup the stump of his left arm. “This Shroud sounds far worse than the Apples. I don’t suppose they’ll kill themselves with it and save us the effort?”

“I don’t think so. We have to get that Shroud.”

“You don’t.”

Marîd nodded. “I do.”

“Idiot.” Malik growled.

“I learned well.”

Malik nodded, accepting the reprimand, which Marîd considered well-earned considering his mentor had spent most of their conversation criticizing him for things he’d done himself. “What’s your plan?”

Marîd shrugged one shoulder. “I don’t have one.”

“That’s never a good idea. Go in blind and you’ll certainly be killed.”

“I don’t have to. To the Templars I’m Tazim, Ammar’s trusted lieutenant. I put the Shroud in that vault. I can retrieve it any time I want.”

Malik sighed. “Plans are never that simple.”

“Why not?” When Malik snorted Marîd said “I’m serious.”

“What if they’ve moved the relic?”

“There’s no reason to. If they have, they’ll tell me.”

“And if your Templar master calls you back?”

Marîd glanced up at the windows overhead. The pale moonlight ruined his night vision, and when he looked back at Malik his mentor was nothing more than a dark shadow on the stone. “He won’t. It’s not midnight yet.”

“But if he does?”

“Then I’ll tell the guards he sent me for the Shroud.” Marîd blinked as his eyes readjusted to the darkness. “It’ll be easy.”

“I hope you’re right.” Malik sighed. “I’m coming with you.”

“They’re hunting you.”

“They’re Templars.” Malik said. “Do you really think that worries me?”

“Don’t you have to wait for Altaïr?” When Malik didn’t immediately dismiss the idea Marîd pressed his advantage. “You never told me why he wasn’t with you. What happened to the Apple?”

Malik shifted uncomfortably. “It’s a long story.”

“Ammar’s expecting me by midnight,” Marîd reminded him. “We don’t have much time.”

They held each other’s gazes for a moment, but it was Malik who looked away first. He sighed as he reached up and ran a hand through his short hair. “Go,” he said briefly. “But if you’re not back by the time the moon reaches zenith I’m coming after you.”

Marîd nodded. He turned away, a little startled to see how far the shadows had lengthened. It felt like they’d been talking barely any time at all. He retraced his steps around the marble blocks and the mule.

“You said you’d write,” Malik called after him.

“So did you,” Marîd said, and slipped out of the door.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have fanart by the amazing caroline! who flatly refused to draw the interior of the Hagia Sophia  
> So yeah, body horror. This is Ammar and Benetto’s kick the dog moment. I have a medical background, but I promise there’s no more cruelty to animals in this fic. There may be more cruelty to people, who may or may not deserve it.  
> The Hagia Sophia (Sancta Sophia) is an amazing building. It’s changed a bit over the years, but this website has several pictures of how the sanctuary would have looked in 1200 as well as plenty more information on the Byzantines https://www.pallasweb.com/deesis/sanctuary-of-hagia-sophia.html  
> The bath house Marîd and Ammar visit is modelled on the Cemberlitas Hamami, https://www.cemberlitashamami.com/ an Ottoman bath house. Hammams are similar to Roman baths, and the Byzantines were basically posh Romans, so the decoration would be slightly different, but I’ve kept the massage slab and the star shaped skylights.  
> Marîd is sort of Malik’s adopted kid, read about their adventures in Morocco in my story Assembly of Bones.


	9. Chapter 9

_Altaïr_

Altaïr scooped up Irene with one hand across her mouth. She clung to his chest. Altaïr shifted her to his left side and wrapped his arm around her, making sure he didn’t accidentally trigger his hidden blade. With his right hand he held his fingers to his mouth in a gesture he hoped was universal. “Shh.”

The girl gazed at him with wide eyes. She nodded, and Altaïr drew his blade just as the guard pushed open the door. The Crusader used his left hand, which was fortunate, because it opened up his armpit and gave Altaïr plenty of room to slide the knife home with the minimum amount of blood. The man fell noisily, blocking the doorway, and Altaïr let him. He sheathed the knife, reached up with his right hand and turned Irene’s head into his shoulder. “Don’t look.”

She sniffed, clenching her hands into the corner of Altaïr’s cowl. The weight of her reminded Altaïr of holding Darim, before he’d left Masyaf, and he wondered what he could find to distract her from the carnage.

He bent down, supporting the girl with his left hand. The corpse was more difficult to move then he expected. Blood smeared the floorboards, and by the time Altaïr had cleared the doorway he heard more footsteps approaching. 

Altaïr couldn’t do anything about the stain, but there were other ways he could conceal himself. He glanced up at the ceiling and admitted that most of the methods wouldn’t work with a child.

“You have to stay quiet,” he told the girl. “Understand?

She sniffed. Either she didn’t understand his Latin, or she was too scared to reply. He tried to put her down, but she clung on like a monkey. When he lowered her she sniffed and took a couple of deep breaths that Altaïr knew were most likely a prelude to a full-on screaming match. He lifted her up, sighed and resigned himself to carrying her.

As he shook out his right wrist he wondered how hard it could be to fight with one hand. Malik fought with one hand all the time.

Altaïr straightened. “Shush,” he ordered, tilting his head as he heard the next Crusader approach. The third man entered more cautiously. He came in sword-first, slamming the door back with enough force that Altaïr was glad he hadn’t tried to hide behind the door this time.

The Crusader saw Altaïr with the child and slashed at him, sword raised. Altaïr evaded the blade with ease. He stepped forwards as if the move had been scripted beforehand and kicked out the Crusader’s legs. Then he caught him in the face with his elbow and stabbed him in the chest. The kill was pleasantly bloodless. Altaïr saw no point in traumatising the girl any more than he had to.

Irene made a soft sound into Altaïr’s shoulder. He cupped his hand around her head and sheathed the dagger he had used on the Crusader. “Let’s go and find-“

Then the door slammed back, and the two last guards entered at a run.

Altaïr abandoned his attempt at fighting one-handed, thinking ruefully what Malik would say once he told him. “Get on my back,” he told the girl. “I’m going to need both hands.”

She didn’t move. Altaïr spun so that his right side faced the Crusaders, putting Irene to the wall. When he tried to draw his sword he found he couldn’t reach it without stabbing the child. The first man charged at him, blade upraised, which would have given Altaïr a perfect opening if he’d been in a position to take it. Instead he edged sideways and drew his dagger instead, doing his best to shrug Irene onto his back.

The girl refused to move. Altaïr punched the first man in the stomach with the hilt of the dagger, pushing him away. The man staggered back and retreated behind his companion to recover. Altaïr slashed wildly enough to make them both back away for a moment while he tried again to shift the girl. She slid around his back, exactly how he’d intended, and grabbed Altaïr’s cowl, which wasn’t. Fabric tightened round his neck, choking him. He gasped for air as the Crusaders moved in. The first man lunged for Altaïr’s right arm, obviously hoping for a disabling blow. The second aimed for his throat.

Black spots danced before Altaïr’s eyes. He threw his knife. “ _Let go_!”

The first man reeled back, clutching the hilt of the blade buried in his chest. Altaïr dodged a fraction of a second before the second man’s sword found him. Altaïr had already shifted his weight in anticipation of the blow. The blade caught his belt, and he followed with a kick that knocked the Crusader backwards. 

Irene released Altaïr’s cowl and grabbed his shoulders. Altaïr gasped and bent over to drag in air. The girl yelped, and he realized the movement had exposed her.

The first man was lying on the floor, not moving. The second man aimed an overhand strike at Altaïr’s spine. It was a terrible tactic that left him wide open for attack, but, with Altaïr half-strangled and missing his knife, there was a reasonable chance the strike might succeed, and a better one the blade would behead the girl before it landed.

But Irene had moved. And that meant-

Altaïr’s hand found his sword. He drew the blade in a long arc that swept up and around, cutting the Crusader in half nearly to the spine. The man collapsed.

Altaïr bent over and wheezed. When he was done he straightened, flicked blood from his blade and sheathed the weapon. The child was heavy. He thought about putting her down, but as he looked around the bloodstained room he realised that was probably a bad idea.

“It’s all right,” he said softly and unfocused his eyes to search for the Apple. The Byzantines were where he’d left them, probably arguing about whether or not to enter the warehouse to search for the child despite the warning Altaïr had given them. The grey figures of bystanders, slaves, or captives were packed into a few rooms to his left. The last man, the one he really wanted, was close by.

Altaïr considered. He knew he should return the girl before he found the Apple. On the other hand, though, arriving with the captive the Crusader had tasked his men to find should confuse the man and buy Altaïr some time.

Altaïr headed left, towards the slaves.

The Eagle Vision was excellent at identifying foes but less clear on layout. When Altaïr opened the door he found the slaves not chained as he’d expected but locked in hastily constructed cages. The room was cold, and lamplight from the streets outside gleamed through gaps between the planks. The cage doors were all locked. The locks were heavy and unlikely to break open with the weapons Altaïr had to hand.

The girl pulled on his ear and pointed to the slaves. Altaïr approved of her priorities. “In a moment,” he said. “We need to find a key.”

A few of the captives gazed at him from nests of makeshift blankets. Altaïr felt the old familiar rage. He clenched his fists and exhaled. Then he turned from away the cages and gave the girl a boost up on his back . She clung to him as he returned to the bodies, knelt, and rifled through the dead men’s clothes. There was no key.

Swearing carefully in Arabic, Altaïr retraced his steps into the second room. This time he turned left instead of right, heading deeper into the warehouse. The air here was warmer, and the rooms were more solid, built from double layers of planks and caulked with rags and scraps of wool. He passed through the last door and entered a room almost comfortable by the cells’ standards, though this only meant there was a brazier glowing by the door and a long trestle table in the centre of the room. There were two benches, one each side of the table, and several stools. On the bench sat a stocky man with greying hair. He looked up as they entered and frowned.

Irene gasped as soon as she saw him, tightening her arms around Altaïr’s throat. Altaïr kicked out one of the stools and edged it back against the wall with his foot, then lowered the girl onto it. “Sit there,” he told her. “Keep quiet. I won’t let him hurt you.” He paused. “Tell me if anyone comes in.”

The girl smoothed her robe out beneath her and cradled her hands in her lap. She looked up at Altaïr and nodded seriously.

Altaïr nodded back at her and sat down on the closest bench. He half-turned, sitting with one leg on one side of the bench and one on the other, so he could watch the door to his right, the man on his left and the child sitting against the wall without moving his head more than he had to.

The man seated across from him looked Venetian, but his robe was Byzantine, a long mantle embroidered with gold threat that didn’t quite fit him. He held the Apple in one hand. The orb gave off a muted glow. “What’s going on?” he asked them in the same voice that had ordered the thugs to kill Niketas and Anna and retrieve Irene.

“We have a meeting,” Altaïr told him.

The man smiled disarmingly. “That’s strange. I don’t recall. Still, you found the girl for me. That’s good. But you’re not one of my men. Who are you?”

Altaïr saw no point in hiding his identity from a man who would soon be dead anyway. “My name is Altair.”

“That’s a Saracen name,” The Venetian’s mouth tightened. “Why are you here?”

Altaïr leaned forwards and gestured to the Apple in his hand. “You’re going to give me the orb.”

The Venetian smiled. “Why would I do that? Do you know what this is worth? The Templars would trade anything to get their hands on it.”

“Because if you don’t,” Altaïr told him seriously, “I’m going to break all your fingers.”

The man’s smile died. He picked up the Apple and went to the door. Altaïr didn’t stop him. He shouted for help, but nobody came. Before the Venetian could run Altaïr got up, caught the back of his fine robe with one hand and slammed him back down onto the bench he had just vacated. He twisted the man’s wrist until he released the Apple and set the orb on the table. Then he took the Venetian’s little finger on his left hand and broke it.

The man gasped. He cradled his left hand in the palm of his right. “Where are my men?”

Altaïr shrugged. “They’re dead.”

“Why are you doing this?”

Altaïr picked up the Apple. Opalescent light gleamed over its curved surface. He tucked the orb securely in his robe and shrugged. “The relic’s mine. Besides, I don’t like slavers.” He prised the Venetian’s fingers apart and snapped the little finger of the man’s right hand. “People shouldn’t be property.”

The man moaned. “What do you want?”

“Who were you going to sell the orb to?”

“I told you! The Templars! Please don’t break my fingers!”

“What do the Templars want with the orb?”

“I don’t know!” The Venetian panicked, thrashing, and clawing at Altaïr’s hand.

Altaïr accepted the rebuttal at face value. He slid a glance over to the girl, who was watching him with rapt attention and bent the man’s left ring finger back towards his wrist. Breaking fingers one by one took longer than he liked, but it was effective. “What were you going to do with the slaves?”

“What do you think! I was going to take them to Venice and sell them! There’s a slave market on the Rialto-best in the world. I’ve treated them fairly-”

Altaïr applied more force. The Venetian screamed as his remaining ring finger shattered. “What do you want?” he pleaded. “Anything!”

“Perhaps we can come to some arrangement,” Altaïr agreed. He released the Venetian’s left hand. “Do you have a ship?”

The slaver gasped with relief. “I have a ship in the harbour.”

“How many crew?”

“It’s a small ship. Only four crew, and a captain. But she’s seaworthy.”

“What’s her name?”

“The _Contessa_!” The Venetian jerked his chin towards the harbour, gasping as Altaïr gripped his wrist. “She’s right there! At the dock.”

“Who’s her captain?”

“Giorgio Cantorini! Tell him da Mosto sent you. He’s a good man! He’ll follow your orders!”

Altaïr smiled. “Good.”

“Anything you want! Just let me live!”

Altaïr paused. He looked over at the child, who was sitting on the stool right where he’d left her; and gave the Venetian’s wrist a twist before releasing the slaver. “Do you have the keys to the cages?”

The Venetian fumbled at his belt with shaking hands. His broken fingers made the search slow, but after a few moments he pulled out a wide ring of keys and set them on the table. Altaïr picked up the ring and tossed the keys on the floor by the girl. “Go,” he told her. “Find your family. Free the slaves. The guards are all dead, so you’ll be fine till I get back.”

The girl picked up the heavy iron ring with both hands. She glanced over at Altaïr and the Venetian.

“Go,” Altaïr jerked his head. The girl slipped out the door. Altaïr waited, listening to her footsteps recede down the passage. When he judged the child had gone far enough he turned back to the Venetian. The slaver whimpered. “Let me live.”

Altaïr didn’t. But the Venetian died quickly, far faster than his slaves would have.

Once it was over he joined the Byzantines outside. Niketas paced, bulky body rigid with tension. Anna rocked Irene in her arms. There were ten people with them, most of them with bruises that made Altaïr want to kill the slavers all over again, though they showed no sign of serious harm.

“You set them all free?” Altaïr asked. There were a lot less people than he’d seen in the cages.

“Yes,” Niketas nodded. “Many have left already. The rest want to come. They’re got nowhere else to go.”

Altaïr shrugged. “They’re free to leave. Have you found a pilot?”

Niketas pulled a nervous looking man forwards, “Yes,” he said, slapping the man on the back. “This is Zeno. He’s going to help us.”

“We won’t be able to go far,” the sailor said, folding his arms. “But I can make Selymbria. Where’s the boat?”

Altaïr looked out at the harbour and saw a dozen small boats. Several had names painted on the bow in Latin or Greek script. “Which one is the _Contessa_?”

Anna pointed. “That one.”

The ship she indicated was a modest vessel, about twenty paces long, with a single mast and a solid-looking structure, perhaps a cabin or a kitchen, on the deck. Altaïr had thought the ship would be a galley, far too large for a skeleton crew to sail. He turned to the sailor. “Can you sail that?”

The man nodded. “She’ll take you to Selymbria. But won’t there be a crew aboard?”

“I’ll deal with them.” Altaïr turned and stalked towards the ship. “Wait here,” he said over his shoulder, just in case the crew presented more resistance than the slavers had, or in case the Byzantines or any of the slaves tried to follow him aboard. To his surprise, they obeyed. The killing of innocents was forbidden by the Creed, but killing evil men tended to earn you a certain amount of respect, if few close friends.

The ship’s gangplank was down. Altaïr climbed aboard easily, trying to ignore the way the ship rocked beneath his feet. The crew must have been expecting someone, perhaps da Mosto, perhaps another of the slavers. They didn’t confront Altaïr until he reached the deck structure he’d seen from the dock, which turned out to be a tiny kitchen. A man ducked out from under the low tile roof, wiping his hands, and Altaïr asked him “Where’s the captain?”

The man tossed the rag back inside. “I’m Giorgios. The captain.” He looked Altaïr up and down. “Are you from da Mosto?”

Altaïr saw no point in lying. If these men had planned to transport slaves, they deserved whatever fate came their way. “No.”

“Then who the fuck are you?”

“I’m an Assassin,” Altaïr told them.

One of the sailors, perhaps smarter or better informed than his colleagues, gave Altaïr a horrified glance, jumped onto the dock and ran away. The remaining three sailors edged towards the railings.

The captain frowned. “What’s going on?” He reached behind him without taking his eyes from Altaïr and picked up a knife from the galley. From the look of the blade the knife had been sharpened many times.

Altaïr sighed and drew his sword. “Your master da Mosto is dead,” he told them all. “You are all unemployed. I’m taking the ship. I suggest you leave quietly.”

The captain looked at his knife, which was curved and about the length of his forearm. Then he looked at Altaïr’s sword. He sighed, drew back his arm, and tossed his knife over the side. It landed in the dark waves with a splash. “Not my ship,” he said, glaring at the three remaining sailors. “We’re just hired crew. We don’t get paid enough for this.”

From Altaïr’s limited experience, the sailors looked like they knew what they were doing. He was tempted to hire them, but he didn’t trust them with the slaves out at sea. “Go,” he told them. “Quickly.”

The sailors did as he said. The Byzantines boarded. The slaves looked hopefully nervous. Anna gripped her husband’s hand as he helped her onto the deck. Zeno looked up at the rigging, ran one hand over the rails and stamped hard on the deck. Then he smiled.

“Will it do?” Altaïr asked him.

The sailor nodded vigorously. “She’s a fine ship. Can get us where we want to go.” He reached up and caught hold of the rigging. “What d’you want to do with her, when we reach our port?”

“Sell her,” Altaïr said. Freeing slaves was easy, but if they wanted to stay free, they’d need money. “Split the takings equally.”

Zeno grinned “She’ll fetch a fine price. Those fellows knew their trade. She’s all ready to leave. They must have been hoping to catch the evening tide. We can leave now.” He cast a wary glance along the quay. “While we can.”

The Byzantines exchanged glances. “Are you coming with us?” Anna asked.

Altaïr shook his head. “I have to stay,” he said. Even if he hadn’t, a sea voyage in the opposite direction to Masyaf held little appeal.

Niketas’s nod seemed slightly relieved. “Thanks for your assistance.”

“Yours too,” Altaïr tried to think of practical advice. “The sailor you found seems honest, but don’t let anybody else take over. Make sure the ship’s divided equally. It might be all you have to start afresh. What will you do?”

Niketas patted the book slung around his chest. “I have plans. People should know how Byzantium fell.” He pointed to the smoke-clouded sky. “The city she once was exists only in my memory-and soon she will exist between these pages. I’ll start a new chapter in my history. Describe her fall.” He held out a hand to Altaïr. “I’ll write of you kindly.”

“Don’t write of us at all,” Altaïr said.

He was about to turn away when Anna touched his shoulder. “Are you sure you can’t come with us?”

Altaïr hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said, wondering how long it would take him to find Malik. “How long can you wait?”

Anna relayed the question to Zeno, who nodded thoughtfully. “Three hours,” he said, glancing at the waves. “That’s if there’s no trouble.”

“Leave if there is,” Altaïr said firmly. “I won’t ask you to risk your freedom.” _Not after I’ve fought so hard to keep it_ , he thought privately. “But if you could-“

Once their negotiations were concluded, he hurried back along the quay and turned his back on the sea, heading for the great crouched shape of the Sancta Sophia up on the city’s ridge. As he leapt from rooftop to balcony to faded awning he thought of his wife and his own family. The memories were painfully familiar.

It had taken thirteen years for Altaïr to feel that the Order could survive without him. However much the Assassins revered him, he was only one man, and he knew how easily men died. If he wanted the Brotherhood to survive he needed men to follow him not because he was Altaïr, who had defeated the Old Man, but because they believed in the Creed. He had Maria, and Darim, and Sef. He had Malik. He had the _dais_ , old Moctar, young Atash, loyal Rauf, and irascible Abbas, and the _rafiq_ s, and all the _fidai’in_ and villagers of Masyaf.

And so, when the Assassin stronghold of Alamut had asked for Masyaf’s assistance, and Altaïr had heard rumours of a Piece of Eden in the city of Persepolis, he’d been free to combine the two errands and travel to Persia himself. He’d taken Malik with him, because Alamut would negotiate with nobody else, and promised Maria he would be back in a year.

He owed her an apology; once he returned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is basically my version of that one fight in the Fast and the Furious movie when Jason Statham fights carrying a baby. Altaïr talks about hating slavery in the Codex and it’s always fun to write fight scenes based on gameplay.   
> I started writing shortly after the first game so my timeline’s a little different, as Altaïr and Malik spend several years searching for Eden fragments by themselves before returning to Masyaf so Altaïr can go to Cyprus and meet Maria, but he’s still a dad. Masyaf’s denizens make an appearance in my story To War with Women, but Abbas isn’t a villain.   
> And the ship they board is inspired by the Yassiada Byzantine shipwreck, found outside Istanbul


	10. Chapter 10

_Marîd_

Marîd skirted the Hippodrome as he returned to the Lauseion. The upper portions of the two great obelisks that marked each end of the racetrack were lost in shadow, though the bronze plates had been stripped from the bases of the monuments. As he neared the palace he searched the roofs for the men with crossbows the guard had mentioned. The first five were easy to find. The sixth was harder, but Marîd eventually saw him leaning against a chimney pot on the Lauseion’s roof. The guards wouldn’t stop Assassins, but if it gave the Latins something to do that wasn’t fighting or looting then Marîd was in favour.

Marîd strolled up the street in plain sight and slipped into the Lauseion. As he entered the colonnade he changed his gait, adopting a slouching posture that conveyed resentment and no particular hurry. The guards he’d seen earlier were still on duty and Marîd went over to them. “Ammar sent me for the shroud.”

The guard glanced back over his shoulder at the treasure. “Already? Why?”

Marîd shrugged. “He gives the orders. I just follow them.”

“What’s he planning?”

“No idea.” Marîd let his sullen scowl fade to a more sympathetic expression. “All I know is he wants it back.”

The guard wearily rubbed the back of his neck. “He already sent for Benetto’s crew. What’s going on?”

Marîd shrugged again. “I’m only a servant. You understand? ”

The guard nodded. “You’re just doing your job.” He turned and gestured inside, where two other guards had removed their helmets and were busy tossing dice on the porphyry table next to the box that held the shroud. “Give it over.”

The closest gambler sighed loudly, rose, and handed Marîd the box containing the Shroud. His companion rolled the dice again while his colleague’s back was turned and gave Marîd a conspiratorial wink when he saw him watching. Marîd winked back and pulled on his gloves.

“Any sign of trouble?” he asked as he took the box.

The leader flicked his fingers in a gesture meant to ward off evil. “Not yet. But don’t speak so soon, friend. You’ll bring bad luck down on us.”

“I doubt it,” Marîd said. “ _Bona note_ ,”

The guards wished him a good night in return. As Marîd crossed the courtyard he heard the sounds of a loud argument breaking out behind him in Venetian. He grinned. The more distractions, the better. The Venetians would remember Marîd‘s visit once Ammar discovered the relic was missing and raised the alarm, but with luck the guards would assume that Marîd really was working for Ammar, and the confusion would buy the Assassins time to escape.

He left the courtyard and walked back towards the bathhouse where he’d left Ammar, wandering into the shadows at the edge of the street. When he reached a market with five different exits he slipped beneath a tattered canopy, cut through the central square and picked a gate at random. He came out three streets to the south under a wide awning and headed back to the Sancta Sophia, slipping from shadow to shadow with the ease of long practice.

The basilica seemed empty when Marîd reached it. He went inside and headed back towards the altar, skirting the trail of blood and dung left by the slaughtered mule. “It makes no sense,” he said to thin air as he crossed the scarred and filthy marble. “They all share the same faith.”

“That’s the problem with faith,” Malik’s voice was desert-dry. “It’s not logical. The Crusaders speak of peace, but all they want is wealth and power.”

As Marîd looked around the looted sanctuary he found it hard to argue. “Any sign of Altaïr?”

Malik shook his head. “Not yet.” He stared at the box tucked beneath Marîd’s arm. “Is that the Shroud? Did you run into any trouble?”

Marîd shook his head. “Not a bit. I told you I wouldn’t have a problem.”

He set the box down on the nearest chunk of stone and flicked the catch open. Holding his palms apart, he used his thumbs to lever open the lid without touching the cloth inside. The hinges creaked as the lid opened, and Marîd peered in. The box remained dark. The Shroud did not glow.

Marîd nudged the box cautiously with the tips of his gloved fingers. In the dim light he saw the rough weave of linen. The fabric’s texture gave him his first clue that his plan had gone terribly wrong. Instead of the mysterious patterns that had reminded Marîd of the Apples this cloth had faded grey stripes and a tasselled fringe. What he’d taken for the Shroud was nothing but a bath house towel.

He sighed and tossed the crumpled towel aside. “This isn’t it.”

“What do you mean?”

Marîd pointed at the casket. “That’s the box. But that isn’t the Shroud.”

Malik’s eyebrows raised. “So where is it?”

“I don’t know. I saw it in the bathhouse with Ammar.” Marîd mentally retraced his steps. “I took the box to the treasure room, and then I came here.”

“Did it leave your sight?”

Marîd nodded. “Of course it did.” The guards could have replaced the Shroud with a fake as a test, but they didn’t seem the type to lay elaborate plans, and they hadn’t seemed suspicious when he’d taken it again. “But I don’t think it was stolen there.”

“Before that?”

“No. I couldn’t have-” Marîd hesitated. “Yes. I went to leave, but Ammar called me back. He was acting strangely.”

“So your Templar master has the Shroud. And it’s probably already corrupted him.”

“How do you know that?”

“Think.” Malik drew a dagger from his belt and prodded the fake Shroud with the tip of the knife. “Did he ever have any reason to question your loyalty?”

“No. I wouldn’t be alive if he did.”

“Then why would he take the real Shroud?”

“Because he wanted to use it when I wasn’t looking.” Marîd reached over and closed the box. “He’s using the relic for something. Something he doesn’t want me to see.”

“Something we should stop,” agreed Malik.

“Shouldn’t we wait for Altaïr?”

“That depends,” Malik indicated the box. “Did anyone see you?”

“There were guards at the palace, but they’re used to me by now.” Marîd picked up the casket and tucked it back beneath his arm. “You’re right, though. I can’t be sure that they won’t tell Ammar.”

Malik nodded fractionally. “Then we should strike before they grow suspicious.” He turned away, casting over the marble floor until he found a Crusader’s abandoned fire. Then he picked up a half-charred stick that had once been a richly carved chair leg, crossed to the guttering candles by the altar and crouched down on the stones.

Marîd joined him. “What are you doing?”

“Drawing a map for Altaïr,” Malik used the stick to scratch out an Assassin A. “Tell me where to find the Templar.”

Marîd recounted the route as simply as he could, and Malik sketched a map for Altaïr on the stones. The rough outlines of houses, wandering streets and shorthand snatches of Arabic writing spread out beneath his hand while Marîd watched. “Will he be able to find us?”.

“If he doesn’t it won’t be the map’s fault,” said Malik. He rose, wiped his hand on his soot-stained robe, and jumped down from the dais. “Come on.”

Marîd didn’t move. “What’s your plan?”

“What do you think? We’re going to kill him and take back the Shroud.”

Marîd sighed and jammed his hands in the pockets of his robe. The box pressed uncomfortably between his upper arm and ribcage. ““You don’t have to kill him. We have other weapons we can use.”

“I know,” Malik’s frown darkened to a scowl. “I taught you how. But there are times-“

“Look,” Marîd interrupted. “When the Templars first found you were in the city they discussed ways to stop you. They even suggested attacking Nusaybah and Altaïr’s family. They think you’re monsters.” 

“If the Templars harm my family or Altair’s they will find just how much of a monster I can be,” Malik snarled.

Marîd nodded. “Do you know why they didn’t?”

“This argument won’t make me stay my blade.”

Marîd continued regardless. “The Templars don’t believe Assassins are capable of feelings. They don’t believe you care for anything but the Creed. Give me a chance to prove them wrong.”

Malik sighed. “What do you want me to do?”

“Give me time. I can reason with Ammar.”

“He may not be in his right mind,” Malik warned.

“At least let me try.”

“That depends. Is he alone?”

“He was when I left him.”

“What’s this bath house like?”

“One main entrance leads straight to the changing rooms,” Marîd picked up the charred stick from where Malik had dropped it and sketched out a hasty diagram. “A narrow corridor leads into the hot room. That’s where I left Ammar. It’s a big square chamber that looks circular.” He dotted twelve columns in a ring around the centre of the room. “The pillars divide the room up into separate chambers, so it should be easy to enter unseen. There’s another door round back, for the workers, and the main room has skylights. They’re not big enough to climb through but you should be able to see if I need help.”

“Do you think that’s likely?”

“No. Ammar thinks I’m on his side.”

“We should try to hide the truth as long as possible,” Malik agreed. “Things will go much more smoothly if he thinks you’re still his ally.”

Marîd nodded. “Ammar’s no fighter. If it all goes wrong I can easily disable him and take the Shroud myself. Even if I fail, we should have time to meet up with Altaïr. We can catch a ship to Antalya, and from there to Antioch. We could be back at Masyaf by summer.”

Malik’s boots scuffed the marble as he shifted, tucking his right hand across his chest in a gesture that in any other man would have meant folding his arms. “Disable? We should kill him while we have the chance. The last thing the Assassins need is a capable Templar leader.”

Marîd shook his head. “Killing him won’t work. Altaïr killed every high-ranked Templar in the Holy Land thirteen years ago. The Templars are still here.”

Malik scowled. “Who taught you rhetoric?”

Marîd grinned. “You.”

“It’s a good thing Altaïr’s not here,” Malik said seriously. “Very well. You get one attempt at settling things peacefully. After that, we do things my way.”

They slipped from the shadows of the Sancta Sophia and went out into the night. Marîd led, trying to look nonchalant. The chance of success distracted him more than the fear of failure. Once they had the Shroud, he’d be free from the Templars. Free to return to Masyaf.

Marîd had spent a long five years far from Masyaf and the Order. He’d worked for the Assassins, but always at arm’s length. At first he’d thought of his return to Masyaf with eager anticipation, then with inevitability, and finally, when he thought of it at all, with distant hope.

He looked over at his mentor. Silver strands stitched the hair at Malik’s temples. His robes were faded and threadbare from travel, and the fine lines between his brows had deepened into creases. But his eyes were just the same, black as ink and keen as the edge of a blade.

The first time Marîd had met Malik and Altaïr, he’d tried to kill them both. When they’d spared his life he’d crossed the desert with Malik to make amends and found himself fighting a war he only understood years later. He remembered Malik teaching him the Creed around a desert campfire, discussing philosophy and free will as he scowled and scribbled notes with ink-stained fingers. He’d shown Marîd how to wield a blade, taught him to climb, and taken him to Masyaf. By the time they’d reached Syria, Marîd had been half an Assassin already.

When they were almost at the bath house Marîd drew Malik aside beneath a striped awning. Golden lamplight shone from the skylights pierced in the hammam’s dome. The door was still half-open as he’d left it and there was no sign that anything else had changed since his exit. “This is the place.”

Malik held Marîd’s gaze for a moment. Then he exhaled and dragged his hand through his hair. “Fine, then. I’ll go round the back.”

“Don’t let yourself be seen,” Marîd warned.

Malik snorted. “Don’t worry. I was hiding in plain sight when you were still falling off pillars.” He reached up and locked his fingers in Marîd’s curly hair, shaking his head tenderly back and forward. “Be careful, Marîd.”

Marîd tugged loose, gently. “You too,” he said. He nodded to Malik, crossed the street towards the bath house and slipped inside.

Marîd’s heartbeat steadied as soon as he was through the doors. He inhaled and exhaled with each step, descending the stairs as quietly as he could. The dressing room was empty, though as he headed through into the passage he noticed the door at the end of the corridor was ajar. Lamplight streamed through the narrow opening and glittered from the mosaics decorating the passageway. Marîd pulled on his gloves and stared at the floor for a moment to accustom his eyes to the light before he slid through the door.

The chamber inside gleamed. Oil lamps burned in every niche. The lamps should have made the room seem cosy, but the flickering light reminded Marîd of the slick gleam on tainted water. The marble slab was empty, its surface scoured clean. All the scattered possessions had been cleared away. There was no sign of the two bodies and no marks on the floor to show where the corpses had been taken. Despite the scrubbed surroundings the smell of blood was stronger than ever.

Marîd knelt down to check the stones and found traces of still-wet blood ingrained in the cement. As he rose, Ammar ducked beneath one of the arches. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw Marîd and he jerked to a halt, keeping the marble slab between them. “What are you doing here? It isn’t midnight yet.”

“I could ask you the same thing,” Marîd retorted. If Malik had changed little, Ammar had aged ten years in two hours. The Templar’s hair was hidden by his habitual turban, but folds of skin hung slack around his jaw. He had rolled up his sleeves and carried the Shroud folded over one shoulder like a towel. “What happened? You don’t look well.”

Ammar’s laugh was hollow. “It’s temporary. I’ve never been better.”

Marîd slid one foot over another, skirting the marble slab as he moved closer to Ammar. “You gave me a fake. Why?”

Ammar licked dry lips. “I planned to return the Shroud to the treasury. I wanted to-I needed it to be safe.” He reached up and caught the cloth with one bare hand. “But it spoke to me-promised wonders. And it was right. Such marvellous things...”

“It spoke to you?” Marîd frowned. “What did it say?”

A light flickered at the edge of the dome as a shadow passed over one skylight. Ammar’s head jerked up like a puppet. He stared up at the dome through unnaturally dilated pupils. “There’s something up there.”

Marîd followed Ammar’s gaze, but saw no other movement. He shook his head and held out his hand towards Ammar. “It’s nothing. Don’t worry. You’re not well, Ammar. I’ll fetch you help.”

Ammar shivered convulsively. “I’m not sick. I don’t need help.”

“You’re not in your right mind.” Marîd told him. “I can take you back to the palace. Find someone to heal you.” He held out his hand. “Give me the Shroud.”

Ammar reached up and tugged the Shroud from his shoulder. The patterns on the cloth rippled in the lamplight until the relic seemed alive. “The Shroud heals all wounds,” he muttered. “It has so much more to teach us. Let me show you.”

Marîd heard something scrape against the floor deep within the archway. Unease crawled across his skin.

“Ammar,” he said, struggling to keep his voice level, “what have you done?”

Ammar’s smile did not falter. He released the Shroud reluctantly and crooked his fingers.

Benetto walked out of the shadows. Marîd blinked. He’d killed enough people to know what death felt like. The mercenary shouldn’t have been breathing, let alone moving. But here he was, skin pale as bath house marble and marked with the same greyish veins, glaring at Marîd with eyes that burned like rubies. Marîd expected the Venetian to shamble, but Benetto moved with unsettling smooth grace.

Marîd had heard Malik and Altaïr talk of their old master’s thralls, men controlled by the Apple, whose minds were not their own. He stopped in his tracks and held up his hands, palms out, to show Ammar he meant no harm. The light flickered again above his head. Marîd tried hard not to look at the ceiling as he asked, “Did you use the Shroud to heal him?”

Ammar nodded. “Isn’t it wonderful!”

Wonderful was not the word Marîd would have used. He began to edge towards Ammar, but Ammar moved away from him along the wall and Benetto loped forwards to flank him.

“Just think, Tazim,” Ammar continued. “With the Shroud, we can heal any wound. Bring the dying back to life-we can even cheat death entirely! Our soldiers will obey us without question. There will be no war-no suffering-only peace.” 

“The Shroud is an abomination.” Marîd said flatly.

Ammar shrugged. “The Shroud is like the Apples-great and dangerous. We must learn to understand it. Only then will we know its true power.” He waved one hand behind him at Benetto. “Only then will we discover the truth.”

“Ammar,” Marîd said, “this isn’t truth.”

“It’s the only truth.” Ammar held out the Shroud. “Don’t you see? To bring peace, we must first have control. The Shroud is the easiest means of control.”

“No,” said a voice Marîd recognized. “To bring peace, you must have knowledge. And that is something the Templars have always denied.”

Malik stepped out of the shadows in the archway at the back of the room. His eyes flicked towards Marîd for a second before his attention fixed on Ammar.

Ammar jerked violently and backed away round the edge of the raised slab, away from Malik. Benetto’s head swivelled towards the Assassin.

“Jackal!” Ammar hissed. “Murdering dog! You stole the Apple and now you’ve come for the Shroud. Well, I won’t let you.” He gestured to Benetto. “Kill him.”

The mercenary tugged his sword from his sheath. Reflected flames danced along the steel. He stepped forwards, his movements restricted by the marble slab in the centre of the room, and lunged towards Malik. 

Malik evaded Benetto’s swing without obvious effort, drew his own knife and sank the blade beneath Benetto’s chin. The mercenary doubled over, and Malik drove the blade into Benetto’s stomach. He ripped the knife out, reversed his grip and stabbed down into the nape of Benetto’s neck with brutal efficiency.

Benetto slumped to the floor. Malik stepped over the mercenary’s outstretched arm and advanced towards Ammar.

To Marîd’s surprise Ammar held his ground. “You Assassins!” the Templar leader spat. “Killing is all you know. We only seek peace.”

“You call this peace?” Malik half-turned and pointed at Benetto’s body with his blade. “This is _your_ fault, Templar. I’ve stared into that cursed Apple. I’ve seen the future and I’ve come here and seen what you’ve made of this city. All I want is to go home. And now I have to steal this damned Shroud. All because you Templars are obsessed with control and those cursed Pieces of Eden-”

Something moved behind Malik. Before Marîd could shout a warning Benetto lunged up from the floor, sword still in his hand. The Venetian mercenary’s face was a ruined mask, but his blade arm was still strong. Malik jerked backwards just in time. He jumped onto the marble slab, sheathed his knife without taking his eyes from the Venetian and drew his sword.

Something shambled out of the darkness behind him. For a moment Marîd saw only dark shapes. Then he remembered the Lauseion guard. _He’s already sent for Benetto’s crew. What’s going on?_

Marîd had a sudden horrible suspicion he knew.

Three more mercenaries emerged from the shadows with their weapons drawn. The rest of Benetto’s troop were more battered than their master. Their movements were jerky, with none of Benetto’s unsettling liquid grace, but three of them meant four to one, bad odds even by Assassin standards and worse against opponents who couldn’t die.

Ammar unfurled the Shroud with a flick of his wrist and held it out towards Malik. “You Assassins speak of knowledge but deny the truth at every turn. The Shroud can give you what you seek. It can show you truth. Fix what’s broken.” He gestured to Malik’s missing arm. 

“I’d rather die than use that thing,” Malik backed towards the edge of the room as the mercenaries spread out around him, angling sideways to keep his left arm to the wall.

“You assume you have a choice,” Ammar said to Malik, and then to Benetto. “Keep him contained. Only attack if provoked. I want him alive.”

The mercenaries moved in. Surrounded by swords, Malik scowled, but he could not break the ring of blades. He met Marîd’s eyes and gave him a crooked smile. “I would have liked to see Jerusalem again,” he said, lunging for the nearest mercenary. He moved so fast Marîd could barely follow his movements, striking short sharp blows that cost minimal effort and would have been lethal a dozen times over if the soldiers had been mortal. For a moment, all the mercenaries were distracted.

Marîd headed for Ammar.

He reached the Templar in a few steps and ripped the Shroud from Ammar’s arms. Tucking the cloth beneath his left arm, he stepped back and drew his knife. Ammar gaped at him, the confusion in his gaze gradually replaced by shock and betrayal. “Tazim-” he began.

Beneath the sound of battle, beneath the curses and the blows, Marîd heard something scrape along the cracked flagstones behind him. A small sound, barely audible, but enough to remind him that Benetto’s company had five mercenaries. Not four. Which meant-

The sword struck Marîd in the back, striking deep beneath his ribs, and he fell.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A fighty chapter this time. I don’t do bad guys very well, so I’m trying to practice. I also don’t like large casts, so my AC stories tend to be restricted to Malik, Altaïr and a small supporting cast of minor AC characters and OCs. I have a massive soft spot for stories where the Assassins fight against impossible odds-if you do too, check out my post-game story Thousand Days and its sort-of-sequel A Stranger and a Guest.


	11. Chapter 11

_Marîd_

Marîd didn’t remember his legs giving way. He went from standing to lying down with his feet against the marble slab and his back against a pillar. Something warm trickled down his spine.

“Tazim?” repeated Ammar.

When Marîd tried to answer his breath caught in his throat. He gasped and shivered as pain pierced his chest. Warmth soaked through his clothes and he wondered when the bath house furnace had ignited before he realized he was sitting in a widening pool of his own blood.

He heard Malik shout “Marîd!” His mentor rolled beneath a blade and lunged towards him with desperation in his eyes. Ammar looked up without concern. He flicked a finger. Marîd heard the sharp crack of a blow followed by Malik swearing as something dragged him back. “Damn you, Templar. I’ll kill you slowly.”

Ammar ignored the threat. “Tazim, who’s Marîd?”

Marîd took a deep breath as he prepared to lie. When he tried to speak he coughed instead. The coppery taste of blood filled his mouth and a trickle of warm wetness ran down his chin and soaked into his tunic. His vision darkened at the edges. As he tried desperately to focus something whispered in his ear. _Let me heal you._

At first Marîd thought the cool voice was Ammar. Then he realised he still held the Shroud. _All you have to do is pick me up._

Marîd dropped the Shroud. The small movement threw off his balance and he began to slide down the pillar towards the floor.

Ammar shook his head as if Marîd was a novice who’d made a foolish and regrettable mistake. He knotted his fingers in Marîd’s hair and wrenched him upright. Pain lanced through Marîd’s back and he screamed.

Once he was able to think through the agony he saw Ammar kneeling beside him. He heard Malik snarl. “I will kill you, Templar. I’ll slit your throat-”

Ammar sighed and made a sharp movement with one hand. Malik’s threats were abruptly silenced as Ammar peered at Marîd. “It’s a pity. You were a good servant.” He grimaced. “If not a loyal one, it seems. Well, we’ll soon solve that.”

Marîd turned his head away, and Ammar gripped his chin to turn his face towards him. Marîd’s head lolled. He had no strength to fight.

“I don’t fully understand,” Ammar continued. “But the Shroud will soon reveal the truth about you both. You’ll make a much better servant once I can ensure your loyalty. As for the Assassin, free will is wasted on that kind. They understand nothing but ignorance and fear.” He shrugged and reached down for the Shroud.. “If knowledge of the Shroud is what they seek, I won’t deny them.”

Marîd found a gleam of hope amid his rising panic, pain, and fear. Malik was alive, at least for now. His brief elation faded as Ammar settled him back against the pillar and unfurled the Shroud before him. The golden patterns woven in the cloth shimmered as they caught the lamplight. 

“I’d rather die that touch that,” Marîd gasped. “I’ve seen what it can do.”

Ammar bent over Marîd and wrapped one arm around his shoulders, easing him up as he passed the Shroud around his back. Marîd yelped and spat blood into Ammar’s face, but there was little he could do to stop him. The Templar wrapped the ends of the Shroud around Marîd’s chest and sat back, gazing at him expectantly. Marîd remembered the dog’s death throes. He tensed and tried to move away, but the effort made his chest heave and his arms flop limply into his lap. Nothing else happened.

“I think it’s broken.” He forced out the words through bared teeth. Something bubbled deep within his chest. “Is it supposed to-“

He broke off as something blazed within his mind. What little he could see of the bath house interior fell away. The last thing he saw was Ammar’s smile.

Then all he felt was pain.

The pain started at the stab wound in Marîd’s back and spread rapidly through every fibre of his body. Fire raced along his nerves, tracing sinew and muscle, bathing his heart and branching through his bloodstream. Agony twined down his bones like barbed vines and flowered into pain at every joint. Marîd screamed, and the fire rose from his lungs through his throat and his tongue to fill the hollowed chambers of his ears. It crawled through his skull into his brain and set his thoughts on fire. The burning seared every inch of Marîd’s body, and he twisted and howled as he waited to die.

He didn’t die. The fire had mapped his flesh. The Shroud knew what was wrong, and now it meant to set things right.

It began by burning stored fat to release fuel. Then it forced his organs into action, manufacturing blood to replace all he’d lost. It slowed Marîd’s heart and breathing, sealed his blood vessels, and sent swift messengers around his body to set all back to rights. The mercenary’s blade had chipped a rib, but the bone was easily mended. Last of all, almost as an afterthought, it knitted skin together and sealed the stab wound in his back.

The healing process was so brief it only took a moment. Though Marîd was aware of everything, the power that raced swiftly through his body seemed no more than a dream. The pain dimmed, replaced by warmth and a growing wave of euphoria. Marîd traced his body’s lines as if he were made from water, from the caliph’s maze of marrow in his bones to the lacy net of his lungs. He saw his sprawled body for the commonplace marvel it was.

As Marîd’s awareness spread he soared up through the bath house ceiling and looked down upon the city. He saw Constantinople stretch away before him and saw everything the Crusaders had destroyed and all that would replace it. Beneath him he saw a tiny figure running along the street from the Sancta Sophia as if his life depended on it, but the figure was so small and insignificant he paid it little mind.

Then someone called his name.

The voice was faint, hoarse and desperate but familiar, and in it Marîd heard a reminder of what he really was, when all the bones and muscles and miraculous complexity of the brain combined to create something unique, something that was _Marîd_.

Marîd had always hated his name, but it was the one thing he’d brought with him from Morocco, the one thing that finally pulled him back, towards himself. He wanted nothing more than to keep travelling. Instead he turned back towards the bath house and sank back through the ceiling.

He saw his own slumped frame, swathed in cloth. He saw Malik, bleeding from a dozen wounds, striking down mercenaries that wouldn’t die but still fighting because he knew no other way. He saw Ammar, kneeling in front of him.

And he saw his knife, the one he’d dropped when he fell, gleaming in the puddle of his own blood.

Marîd jerked back to consciousness, chest heaving. Though he still tasted the coppery tang of blood at the back of his throat, his breath came easily. As he thrashed through the folds of tangled cloth, he found he didn’t have much strength in his arms.

Ammar bent over him. “That took long enough,” he said. “Now bring me the Assassin.”

Marîd reached out and grabbed his knife. As he lurched upwards, he found he had just enough strength left in his arms to wield a blade. He saw surprise in Ammar’s eyes as the knife slid home. The Templar’s gasp trailed off into a gurgle. He slumped forwards. Marîd shoved the Templar away with the last of his strength and Ammar fell, curled on his side, in a pool of Marîd’s blood.

Marîd collapsed with his back against the pillar and Ammar’s body sprawled across his legs. He heard a heavy thud behind him. Turning his head was an effort, and black spots swam in the corners of his vision. Just behind the pillar he saw a pair of boots made from fine Venetian leather followed by a mercenary’s prone form. The man seemed dead enough, but Marîd couldn’t stir himself to check.

From the other side of the room he heard a few more thuds followed by a curse. Then Malik came limping round the edge of the slab with a bloodstained sword in his hand. “Marîd?” he said, tentatively, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Marîd nodded.

Malik tried to sheath the blade. He winced as he raised his arm, missed, cursed, dropped the blade on the marble and slid over the corner of the slab towards Marîd. When he reached the edge of the dais he dropped down in a crouch on the floor in front of Marîd, cupped the back of his head in his hand and pulled him into a tight embrace.

Marîd leaned forwards and hugged his mentor. The stab wound beneath his ribs should have made the movement unbearable, but he felt nothing worse than overtaxed muscles. When Malik released him Marîd reached back and ran a hand experimentally up his spine, but he felt no wound beneath his torn robe.

Malik leaned back against the slab. “What happened?”

“He used the Shroud,” said Marîd. Sweat and blood stained Malik’s face. He had a bruise upon one temple and blood streaked across his robes, but he didn’t seem too badly injured. “It healed me.”

“Is it-” Malik glanced at the Shroud, which lay crumpled where Marîd had left it. “Are you all right?”

Marîd nodded. “I’ll live.” He glanced around the room at the fallen mercenaries. He didn’t think they could return to life again, but he didn’t want to bet their lives on it. “We should go.”

“Mm,” Malik agreed.

“We need the Shroud.” Marîd said flatly. Given the choice, he’d never see the Shroud again, but the artifact was too dangerous to leave in Templar hands. “I’ll-”

“No,” Malik said flatly. His crooked smile had faded to a frown. “I’ll take it.”

Marîd, who knew how much Malik hated the Eden Pieces, wondered just how sick he looked. Still, they hadn’t time to argue. He pulled off his bloodstained gloves slowly. “Take these.”

The shock of the air on his exposed skin nearly made him gasp. He looked down at his palms, noticing tiny creases, the smooth surface of his nails, the lines of old scars where fibrous tissue had replaced healthy skin. He jerked as he felt a hand on his shoulder. When he looked up he saw Malik staring at him.

“We need to get you out of here,” Malik said, dropping the left glove.

Marîd nodded and levered himself painfully upright. Malik reached for the Shroud, but stopped before his fingers touched it. “Your Templar.”

“Ammar? What about him?”

“He’s still alive.” Malik’s hand went to his scabbard. “You didn’t kill him. Where’s my blade?”

“I was nearly dead,” Marîd said defensively. 

Ammar coughed, reaching out with trembling hands for the Shroud. Malik leaned across the marble slab and found his sword. “I promised that I’d kill you, Templar,” he said, tapping Ammar’s shoulder with the sword’s point. “I don’t break my promises.”

“It’s true,” Ammar rasped. “I should be dead.”

“You soon will be,” Malik informed him.

“No!” Ammar pulled away. “His blade struck true. It’s the Shroud! I feel it in my head. It speaks to me!”

“Does it say you’re going to die?”

Ammar shivered. “No.” He reached out and wrapped himself in the Shroud as Malik watched with distaste. For a moment, nothing changed. Then Ammar’s eyes burned white. He bent and vomited, clutching at his temples with both hands as his body purged itself, shuddering. The tremors grew violent. Ammar’s spine arched, convulsing, and he howled. His head craned back as his body bent impossibly, folding in on itself. Marîd heard bone snap. A fusillade of cracks followed as Ammar’s body shattered. The Templar’s screams continued long past what Marîd thought possible.

“Did I sound like that? Marîd asked once Ammar’s howls ceased.

Malik shook his head. “Worse,” he said, tugging the shroud from Ammar’s corpse.

“Is he dead?”

Malik poked the Templar with his foot. “I think so.”

His head snapped up as something shattered at the back of the room. Marîd fumbled for his knife. Malik dropped the Shroud onto the marble slab and drew his sword in one swift movement. “Who’s there?” he demanded, stalking across the slab towards the back of the room, then broke off. “Altaïr. So good to see you finally return to us.”

The Grand Master of the Syrian Assassins inclined his head. “I’d have been here sooner if you’d been a better mapmaker.” 

“You’d have been here sooner if you bothered to read it at all,” snapped Malik. He sheathed his blade and bent down to retrieve the Shroud. “Is there anyone else out there?”

Altaïr shook his head. “Only dead men,” he said, peering down at Ammar’s body, then up at Marîd. He didn’t seem particularly surprised to see Marîd, though Altaïr had always been more perceptive than he seemed. “Safety and peace, Marîd-though it looks like you’ve seen little of either. Are the pair of you done here? Do either of you have any desire to see more of Constantinople?”

Marîd shook his head. “Not me.”

“And you, Malik? As I recall it was your idea to come.”

Malik gave Altaïr a filthy look. “We’re done.” he said.

“Then I suggest we leave now. I passed a troop of soldiers heading this way. They’ll be here before long, and as the two of you seem in no state to fight we should be gone well before they arrive.”

Malik balled the Shroud up in his hand. “Do you have the Apple?”

“Yes.” Altaïr nodded. “But it seems that you’ve found more than that.”

“That tale can wait,” Malik said quickly.

“It will have to,” Altaïr agreed. “There’s a boat in this harbour ready to leave. When it does, we should be on it.”

“Yes,” Malik muttered. He turned to Marîd. “Can you walk?”

Marîd nodded, though he wasn’t sure he could, not for any distance. The euphoria that had followed his healing had faded, replaced by exhaustion and the memory of lingering pain, just as the joy that followed a long run subsided to cold sweat and aching muscles. “You?”

“I’ll live,” Malik muttered. He turned to Altaïr. “Well? You said we need to hurry. What are you waiting for?”

“You,” Altaïr countered. He gestured to the arches. “This way.”

Marîd pushed off the pillar and staggered. Malik gave him a narrow glare. “Let me help.” He held up the balled cloth in his fist. “But you’re going to have to take the Shroud,”

Marîd nodded towards the bath house’s main door. “The box is down where I came in.”

Malik fetched the casket and unceremoniously stuffed in the Shroud. He handed the box to Marîd, who wedged it underneath one arm and held out the other so Malik could support him. Marid had been a couple of inches taller than Malik before he’d left Masyaf, and to his surprise and satisfaction he’d grown another inch since then. It was awkward, but they managed.

There was no sign of the guards by the time they got outside, which Marîd privately thought was just as well. The Shroud’s healing had left Marîd sick to his stomach, and Malik’s limp got worse the more they walked. By the time they reached the street Marîd couldn’t have said who was supporting who. Altaïr paced impatiently around them, craning his neck from side to side like an eagle surveying its eyrie. To Marîd’s eyes Altaïr hadn’t changed at all. Same unearthly golden eyes, same sneer that Marîd knew was just the scar over his lip.

Malik jerked his chin at Altaïr. “You look better.”

“You look worse,” Altaïr said. “I’m going to scout ahead. Try not to die.”

Malik nodded. Altaïr nodded as if he hadn’t spoken and vanished between the buildings. The street seemed familiar, and as Marîd concentrated he realised he hadn’t lost all of the Shroud’s uncanny vision. Beneath his feet he saw rough stones lit by flickering torches that seemed part of a much older building. Above his head the sky was full of lights and soaring glass-filled towers.

Malik’s hand tightened on his shoulder. “Stay with me,” he ordered, as the strange buildings faded away. “We’ve been in worse corners. Remember the Hesperides?”

Marîd adjusted his grip to support Malik’s weight a little more. “I shot a Templar with a crossbow.”

“You saved my life,” said Malik, glancing back over his shoulder. “I suppose this makes it two.”

Marîd shook his head. “If it wasn’t for you the Shroud would have killed me. It was you I heard calling me back.”

“If it wasn’t for you I’d be back in that place with a mad Templar experimenting on me,” Malik said. “That makes us even.”

They staggered on, leaning on each other. Sometimes Malik supported Marîd’s weight. Sometimes, Marîd let Malik lean on him. When Marîd’s vision wavered again. Malik launched into a long and rambling tale about how Altair had convinced the _rafiq_ s of Masyaf to let women join the order. Altaïr trailed them both, sometimes scouting ahead, sometimes dropping behind. Twice he corrected their route, and once he vanished into the alleys and returned with his blade bloody.

By the time Malik’s tale was done they were almost at the harbour. The smell of salt and the cold sea air brought Marîd back to himself. “I didn’t know that about Altaïr,” he said.

“That’s nothing,” said Malik. “Wait until you find out how he met Maria.”

“He doesn’t need to know that,” said Altaïr, appearing near Marîd’s shoulder with a silent ease that made Marîd jump.

“I disagree,” Malik said calmly. “It’s practically a guide how not to court a woman.”

“There isn’t time,” said Altaïr. “We’re nearly at the harbour.”

Malik gave a one-shouldered shrug. “I suppose you’re right. We should wait until Jerusalem so Nusaybah can tell him. She’s a far better storyteller than I. Much more descriptive.”

Altaïr made a disapproving sound. Malik’s snicker was cut short as he stumbled and Marîd sighed as he took a little more of Malik’s weight. “How did you manage to travel together for two years without killing each other?” 

“Because I’m a very patient person,” Malik said.

“Because he’s not quite good enough to kill me,” Altaïr growled.

Malik gave him a filthy look. “I could kill you if I wanted. But there was always someone else who needed killing more.”

“You couldn’t kill me if you had both arms,” said Altaïr. It would have been a deadly insult from any other man, but Malik just snorted as they staggered aboard.

The little boat was packed with people, but they made room for the Assassins. As Altaïr exchanged a few words with the man who seemed to be the captain, Malik settled, sighing, on the low tiled roof of the sunken galley at the boat’s prow. The little boat put out to sea, moving haltingly and then with more confidence.

As they felt their way through a haze of fog towards the Bosphorus, Marîd leaned over the railing and stared back at the city. The effects of the Shroud had mostly worn off, but beneath the ruins of besieged Constantinople, streets lined with fire and still smelling of smoke, Marîd saw the other cities, the new and the old, the sky lined with towering minarets and skyscrapers and the sea crowded with ferries chugging slowly across the water. He smelled coffee and fried fish and heard blaring horns. The lamplight glittered brightly on the water as a cool wind rose off the strait, and the illusion disappeared as if it had never been. The crowded city became just another mountain ridge. Then it vanished, swallowed by the ocean, as the ship tacked against the wind.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wish at work there really was a magical artefact that could heal all wounds, though a one in three chance of miraculous healing, death or turning inside out seems unacceptably risky. I do love writing historical medicine.   
> One more chapter to go!


	12. Chapter 12

_Malik_

They were halfway across the Bosphorus when Malik thought to ask where they were going. At first he was happy to head anywhere that wasn’t Constantinople, but as the ship surged out over the waves of the Bosphorus and headed to the south instead of turning back north towards Trebizond he began to wonder. The sound of wind and waves meant there was only one stranger in earshot, a woman who stared at Malik uncomprehendingly when he questioned her in Arabic. Malik looked over at Marîd, slid down from the roof, and tested his bad leg on the swaying deck.

Marîd leaned with his elbows on the railing and stared across the water to the city with a strange look in his eyes. He’d placed the Shroud’s casket between his feet. Malik wondered what he saw.

The Shroud had seemed to heal all Marîd’s wounds, but Malik didn’t doubt it would leave him changed in other ways. He hoped Marîd didn’t become as obsessed with the relic as Altaïr was with the Apples. Malik had always sought knowledge, but the look in Marîd’s eyes made him wonder if there were some things the Assassins were better off not knowing. The Eden pieces held great wisdom. But what was it that Al Mualim had said? Increase knowledge, increase sorrow?

He looked towards where Altaïr stood with his back to the mast, as far from any water as he could get, and wondered what how the other Assassin would have fared in Marîd‘s place. Then he abandoned that line of thought, shot one last concerned glance at Marîd in case he did anything stupid, and limped towards Altaïr.

Altaïr greeted him with a nod. “Malik.”

Malik returned the gesture. “Altaïr,” he said. “Where are we going?”

He’d considered all the sea routes on the way over and was hoping for Rhodes, or maybe Antalya, some port where they could catch another ship that would take them towards Acre, or, failing that, a road that would take them back into Syria within a month or two.

Instead Altaïr said “Selymbria.”

“Selymbria?” said Malik, frowning. It took him a moment to place the name, a little port on the Thracian mainland to the south. “Altaïr, Selymbria’s west. That’s in the opposite direction. On the wrong side of the Bosphorus.”

Altaïr folded his arms. “I know,” he said, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

“You’re an idiot with no grasp of geography,” said Malik.

Altaïr held up a hand. “Let me finish-”

Malik didn’t. Altaïr had always been an easy target for his temper. “Selymbria? Because what Marîd really need is to walk more.” He jerked his head at Marîd, who had taken Malik’s place on the galley roof and was watching the waves with the same uncanny stare. “Look at him. He can barely stand.”

“The ship’s going to Selymbria,” Altaïr corrected. “But because I asked nicely they’re going to drop us at Yalova first.” He snorted. “You’re the one that can hardly walk. And I have no desire to haul you over mountains once that leg of yours gives out.”

“Yalova’s further than Trebizond,” Malik pointed out.

“Yes but from there it’s only three weeks to Antalya. Then two weeks by ship to Acre. We could be back by _Shawwal_.”

The news mollified Malik somewhat, but not as much as the thought that Altaïr, of all people, had actually considered their route. “It’ll probably take longer. You must have overlooked something.”

“No doubt,” Altaïr agreed. The ship rocked as it hit a wave. The sudden movement wrenched at Malik’s leg. He staggered, nearly falling, and Altaïr put his right hand gently on Malik’s shoulder to steady him. “What happened? You haven’t told me what you found.”

“While you were off finding the Apple the Templars found a relic in the city. One I trust even less than those cursed orbs of yours. An artifact they call the Shroud.”

“A Piece of Eden?”

“Yes. Or at least, it bears the same marks. It heals wounds, Altaïr. Marîd would be dead if not for that thing.”

“That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“It also brought dead men back to life and turned Marîd’s Templar master inside out.” said Malik. “The Shroud should be destroyed.”

Altaïr knotted one hand in the ropes around the mast and half turned to face Malik. “Are you sure?” he asked. “We’ve kept the Apples safely in the vaults for years.”

Malik nodded. “We’re fighters, Altair. It was bad enough watching Marîd bleed out in front of me and knowing there was nothing I could do. If I’d had it-” He broke off, shaking his head, and felt Altaïr’s hand tighten on his shoulder. “What if it was Maria, Altaïr? What if it was Sef, or Darim? Or someone else’s son or daughter? How could we keep that thing in the vaults and not use it? And if we did, knowing we could save lives, what would that say about us?”

“We wouldn’t use it. The risk would be too great.”

“Are you sure? All the times I’ve heard you swear you’d never touch the Apple?” Malik waved his hand at the midnight ocean. “And still we find ourselves crossing continents to steal them from the Templars?”

“Marîd has it?”

Malik nodded. “Yes.”

Altaïr blinked, and Malik saw in his friend’s gaze just what he’d feared. Curiosity, yes, and temptation, and the hunger for knowledge which had led Altaïr to uncover Al Mualim’s plot against them. “The Shroud should be destroyed,” he repeated. “The Templars made dead men walk, Altaïr. Not just Al Mualim’s thralls, but corpses come to life.”

Something shifted behind Altaïr’s eyes. “How?”

“I don’t know.” Half-way through the fight Malik had broken a mercenary’s neck with a lucky kick. The sound the revenant had made as it struggled up, head lolling, was not one he ever wanted to remember. “I don’t want to know.”

Altaïr shook his head. “No. How can we destroy it?”

“I don’t know,” Malik admitted. “I doubt we can. If it’s like the Apples it won’t break or bend or melt.”

“I could ask the Apple,” Altaïr said. “It would tell me.”

“Would it? We don’t know enough about the relics to be sure.”

“We could try,” Altaïr let go of the rope and rolled his shoulders. “Can I see it?”

Malik didn’t think showing Altaïr the Shroud was a good idea, but he couldn’t think of any reason to refuse. “I suppose so,” he said, turning awkwardly back towards the prow as the boat pitched and grasping Altaïr’s shoulder for support. Altaïr, who knew Malik well, planted his feet wide and stood very still. They turned just in time to see Marîd lift the casket with both hands. He steadied himself against the rail for a moment, raised the box above his head and dropped it into the sea.

Malik sighed. “Well, that solves one problem.”

“We’ll never understand what it can do,” said Altaïr disapprovingly.

“We don’t need to know what it can do. As Al Mualim said, great knowledge brings great sorrow.”

“Good advice,” Altaïr said solemnly. “Just how you’ve always lived your life, Malik.”

Malik punched his shoulder, hard. “Shut up before I push you off the boat as well,” he said, and stumbled. Altaïr caught Malik’s arm with one hand and turned to the captain as the man went past. “How deep is this?” he asked, pointing at the ocean as Malik struggled to his feet. 

The sailor glanced at the ocean the way Malik would have studied a cliff face. “Fifty fathoms?”

“Is that deep?”

“Deep enough,” The sailor looked from Malik to Altaïr, and then over to Marîd at the railing. “Whatever you dropped overboard you won’t get back.”

“Not in our lifetimes,” said Altaïr.

“That’s good enough for me,” Malik agreed. He’d have liked to set the Shroud on fire, but they were on a wooden boat and anyway he doubted it would burn. He supposed sinking the cursed thing deep beneath the ocean should be sufficient. “I’ll talk to Marîd.”

“Should I come?”

Malik shook his head. “No.”

He made his painful way across the planks to Marîd, fighting the rolling ocean that threatened him with every step. The sky was lightening towards the east, and through the darkness Malik saw a line of land. Somewhere across those mountains was Syria, and Jerusalem, and in Jerusalem there was a house by the Bab Ourika gate that he had been waiting to return to for a long time.

He forced himself not to think of home. Not yet. They still had far to travel and there were other matters to discuss. 

He braced his elbow on the railings and leaned against the barrier with a sigh of relief.

Marîd looked over at him. “Are you all right?

Malik’s shrug could have meant anything. “Mmm. You?”

“The same,” said Marîd, swallowing. “I threw the Shroud overboard.”

“So I saw,” said Malik.

“Did Altaïr?”

Malik sighed. Many of the younger Assassins, the ones who hadn’t known Altaïr for years with all his faults, had more respect for Altaïr than Malik thought was good for him or them. “Yes,” he said. “He thinks you shouldn’t have. But he’ll get over it. Besides, you shouldn’t care about him.”

“But he’s the Grand Master!”

“He’s just a man. He can climb walls and kill people better than others, but he has less sense than most. And he’s fascinated by the Eden pieces. Best the Shroud is kept out of his reach.”

“But it’s Altaïr! He uses the Apples for good!”

“Perhaps that’s what Al Mualim thought,” Malik said. “We’re Assassins, Marîd. You shouldn’t have blind faith in anything. Not Altair. Not even me.”

“You’re wrong,” Marîd said. “We have faith. Faith in each other.”

“I suppose we do.” Malik stared at the sunrise, at the place where a red thread marked the horizon, and wondered just when Marîd had grown up. Perhaps the last five years had taught him wisdom. Perhaps it was the Shroud. Perhaps- a sobering thought-it had been Malik.

They stood shoulder to shoulder and watched light fill the sky as the shore grew closer. After a while Marîd said. “I’m not sure whether I want to be an Assassin anymore.”

“Oh?” Malik raised an eyebrow. He knew better than most people that a man might take on many roles, but he was always an Assassin. Once you had seen the light it was hard to blind yourself again.

Marîd nodded. “ I want to help people.”

“You haven’t been paying attention if you don’t think we do that,” said Malik. “We don’t just kill men. We keep them honest. Provide shelter. Educate with knowledge, not faith.” He shrugged. “But if people happen to need killing then we’re well equipped for that.”

“I was thinking of medicine.”

“We always need more healers,” Malik said. “Though if you think that’s an easy life you should speak to the surgeons at Masyaf. Or if you’re interested in herbs I know someone you could speak to in Jerusalem.” He risked a gamble, thinking of his own travels. “Or you could go elsewhere. That harbour is Yalova. From there we’ll travel to Antalya. That’s a big port. Plenty of ships. There are many lands out there. Many people.”

“I know,” Marîd’s gaze lit with amusement. Marîd thought he saw a trace of the Shroud’s uncanny light in his eyes. “I spent three years in Venice, remember?”

Malik snorted. “Venice is full of barbarians. You should travel east.”

“I’ll think about it,” Marîd said. “But are you two going home? To Masyaf?”

“I’m going to Jerusalem,” Malik corrected. “Altaïr will head for to Masyaf. You’re welcome to come with either of us.”

Marîd smiled. “I’d like that,” he said. “How long?”

“Three weeks to Antalya,” Malik told him. “Then two weeks’ sail to Acre. Altaïr says we could be back by _Eid al-Fitr_. _”_

Their journey wasn’t as easy as Altaïr had made it sound, but nothing ever was.

As it turned out, they didn’t arrive in Jerusalem until the end of _Zu al Qa’dah_ , nearly two months after the date Altaïr had predicted. The sack of Constantinople made the Byzantine Empire fracture along old lines, with the Latin Crusaders occupying the west and the Greek Nicean Empire the east, while the Sultanate of Rum waged war along the Anatolian road. The constant minor wars made traveling dangerous for anyone who wasn’t an Assassin, and inconvenient and lengthy even for those that were. It was a long road through the highlands of Anatolia, over barren lands, and high plateaus. By Ankara Malik’s wound festered, and they lost a week of travel, and in Konya Altaïr insulted a mullah so badly they had to sneak off in the night. When they reached Antalya they found an Italian called Aldebrandus controlling the city as it was his own fief, surrounded by Seljuk sultanates which played havoc with shipping, and by the time they landed at Acre the news of the Fourth Crusade’s eventual and lucrative success had emboldened the Frankish lords and made them unwelcoming.

Altaïr left for Masyaf, and Malik and Marîd rode into Jerusalem in high summer, when the road-dust was so thick you could barely see your horses’ ears and the rivers bloomed green with algae before they dried up. They left their horses at a stable near the gate and walked into the city. The narrow streets were even hotter than the road, and the air was thick with steam and the smell of dried meat, and with the sound of singing girls and storytellers. The Bureau was in a different district now, but the path from the gate where they had left the horses led straight down Pearl Street, where the booksellers had their stalls. Malik smiled as he walked past the old Bureau door.

“Where are you headed?” Marîd asked Malik when they reached the silk market that marked the border of Jerusalem’s rich district.

Malik shrugged. “You know where. You can come if you want to.”

Marîd raised one eyebrow and gave Malik a look he recognized from his own face. “Do you want me to?”

“She’d like to see you.”

“Maybe later,” Marîd said, and slipped off on an errand of his own.

Malik went to the house by the Bab Ariha gate and knocked on the door. The sound of his hand on the wood echoing round the courtyard was familiar as the face peering suspiciously through the crack in the door as it opened.

Malik nodded. “Munya.”

Munya’s eyes widened. She dropped the tray she was holding and hurried to open the door in amazed silence. It was the first time in ten years that Malik had ever seen Munya lost for words, which was a pity, as he wanted information.

He picked up the tray, handed it back, and raised his eyebrows.

Munya pointed. “She’s upstairs.”

Malik knew the way. He’d have known it in his sleep. He passed the courtyard garden, which was full of flowers despite the heat, and climbed the flight of narrow stairs by the _iwan_ to Nusaybah’s private quarters.

He saw her seated at her desk, back turned, facing the window, making the most of the fading light lancing through the _mashrabiya_ grilles. Their eyes met in the mirror above her head, the one he’d shown her how to position so she could see everyone who entered without moving. Her gaze was just as he remembered, dark and clever, lined with kohl. 

She turned to face him, smiling, and rose. He never knew who moved more quickly. They met in the centre of the carpet. Her smile broadened, eyes dancing, and Malik realised two things. He’d forgotten to take off his boots at the door, and he was smiling like a fool.

Malik had spent a long time thinking what he’d say when he finally saw Nusaybah again, but he found there was only one thing he needed to tell her.

“ _Ya amar,_ ” he said as she embraced him. “I’m home.”

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it’s done!   
> The beautiful fanart (with historically accurate minarets, but who cares, they look great) is by caroline.  
> The Assassins have a weird philosophy. Here’s an amazing article written when the game was first released about their take on religion. https://www.popmatters.com/118104-rationalizing-faith-in-assassins-creed-2496143914.html In canon the Shroud disappears after the Roman period and turns up again in the possession of a French Templar in the Renaissance, so it’s perfectly possible it could have spent a couple of hundred years at the bottom of the sea in the meantime.  
> As for Nusaybah, she appears in No Name Under Heaven, a melancholy character piece where the Assassins first learn of the Fourth Crusade. That story’s in many ways a prequel to this fic. We first meet her in my tale The Length of God’s Patience where she’s one of Malik’s informers when he first moves to Jerusalem and really rather badly written. I didn’t flesh out their romance until Thousand Days. Every so often I’m tempted to rewrite Length of God’s Patience to make their first meeting less problematic, but that was written a long time ago.   
> Ya amar: my love.


End file.
